Chapter 3

The village was like a lovely rose that seemed to open its splendour just for Elizabeth. Each building was like a petal that unfolded and expanded the beauty of Charlbury as a whole. She wandered through the streets, unable to take it all in, feeling like a desert traveller who had stumbled upon a mirage! There were very few people on the streets, so she didn’t feel too self-conscious about just wandering and looking. The cobblestone sidewalks were narrow and bumpy, so she did occasionally stumble when she got carried away with looking at the tops of buildings. After her initial overview, Elizabeth had properly gotten over her shock, and was ready to explore on a more detailed plan. She started at one end of the main street, that seemed to be the point where business and residential divided. “Co-Op Market” was the first establishment that bid her entrance. Inside, she glanced around at the two aisles of basic food supplies and suddenly had a better understanding of why they called them “supermarkets” in Canada. But Elizabeth was never one to choose massive selection, corporate greed and lost identity over a small little family run shop. This “Co-Op” foods was just to her taste. She picked up a basket, and gathered a few things to survive on for dinner. She greatly enjoyed seeing all the prices in pounds ( ₤ ) and was roughly converting them to dollars in her head. She paid for her yogurt, scones, tea and milk; and moved on. The next shop façade proclaimed: “Whole Foods Store.” “Well, goodness, thought Elizabeth, “Right next door?” But this was an entirely different shop; it was more of a lovely bakery, which Elizabeth took advantage of. The proprietor was also rather friendly, and offered Elizabeth a cup of tea (which she did have to pay for later, but Elizabeth focused on the initial hospitable intent).

The small, grey haired woman who served her at the Florist had the same borderline niceness that Elizabeth had found at the other shops. But, she was beginning to pick up on the cultural differences and was more comfortable in her role as “new person.” The florists’ shop was lovely, the woman helped her pick out a bouquet and explained to Elizabeth the story behind the name of the shop (“My name is Ms. Abigail Watters, but I’ve lived in Charlbury since grade school, and everyone called me Abby when I was five and I haven’t gotten them to stop yet! The Abby’s Apples name comes from the reason why I decided to open this shop, I find flowering crab apple trees to be the most beautiful thing in my life.”)

Elizabeth enjoyed Abby’s brief introduction to the village. She had a feeling she would be back often for flowers and more stories or hints. But the sun seemed to be diminishing, and Elizabeth well-remembered Mr. Barrett’s warning about walking back to the farm after dark. As she stepped back out into the narrow street, she started compling a mental list of places she still wanted to visit: “Well, I’ll need to go to that little library – there won’t be anything for my research, of course, but I’m sure it’s the kind of place where you can find lots and lots of fiction. And that English Heritage sign to the “Blenheim Palace” should mean an easy walk to a beautiful place. Oh, and I’ll have to come in for dinner at the inn sometime. Sometime when I’m really hungry and have a lot of money, from the looks of it!”

She turned up the street that would eventually end up at the farm. The sun was only beginning to set, so she wasn’t too worried. She passed an older gentleman out for a walk with his dogs (“Those look like hunting dogs?” She thought to herself) and he gave her a brusque nod. The road quickly swerved uphill ahead, so Elizabeth concentrated on the task at hand, getting home in one piece.

After one narrow escape involving a rather painful leap into a prickly bush on Elizabeth’s part, she turned the last twist of the road and saw the warm glow of lights from the farm. It was almost like an idyllic scene from an ancient novel: a lone, weary traveller turns the last bend in the hill to discover ‘home’, wherever or whatever that is. In Elizabeth’s case, she treasured the idea of getting out of the bone-numbing damp cold air, and also the idea that she had her own ‘home.’ The door opened with the necessary shove, as Mr. Barrett had advised. She flicked the switch to the living room lights, and Mr. Barrett had been true to his word, her luggage was piled in a neat mound, taking up most of the living room carpet space. “Ah-ha!” thought Elizabeth, “now all that’s left is to unpack. That should only take TEN YEARS!” grunting, and throwing her tired self onto the sofa. Watching British television sounded so much more exciting than unpacking. So Elizabeth succumbed to temptation and planted herself in front of an evening of odd comedies that were quite tragic, overly dramatic soap operas and silly talk shows. “Ahhh, only in Britain can television be so truly, entertainingly bad!” She tore herself away from the fine entertainment around 11:40, when she realized she had done nothing all evening, and tomorrow was her first meeting with a tutor. Sleep suddenly jumped up on her priority list, and she started the massive task of finding a pair of pyjamas within her suitcase city.

Her orientation package had explained that her first tutorial was with Prof. Nottim, who also was her advisor. This was a happy boon, because Elizabeth still felt unsure about how the whole “Oxford tutorial system” worked. She predicted a slew of stupid questions, and from experience Elizabeth knew it was best to choose one person to ask all the silly questions to, and then only one person would know how truly lost /dumb you were. Prof. Nottim had been Elizabeth’s first pick for ‘stupid question person’ mainly because it was the first tutor Elizabeth would meet with.

“Hello, Ms. Hanover, I am Dr. Nottim.” The introductions were formal and did nothing to ease Elizabeth’s nervousness. “Hello, Dr. Nottim.” “Please, sit down.” Elizabeth was ready to excuse herself to run to the ‘loo’ and throw up when Dr. Nottim saved her. “I understand your interest in studying here is very specific, it lies in just one author?” Ahah! A topic Elizabeth could speak reasonably intelligently on.

“Yes, I’ve been interested in the works of Mae Raymond since I was a young girl. I feel her work is underappreciated and under researched, and I hope my work will be an aide to broadening the field of scholarship about this very special author.” Elizabeth explained to Dr. Nottim, with the light in her eyes that always appeared when she got the chance to talk about her favourite author. She still remembered the day when she had first found the letters in that garage sale. Each letter seemed more beautifully written and historic than the last, and each was signed with a beautiful signature, Mae Raymond. As an impressionable young woman, Elizabeth now realized she had been taken with the idea of Mae more than the actual value of the literature, but over the years, as she had matured; her interest is Mae switched its focus. Her goal now was a doctorate thesis entirely focused on Raymond’s work, and she hoped to discover more about this elusive author by doing research in her land of birth.

“Well, Mae Raymond is indeed underrepresented.” I must admit, said Dr. Nottim, turning to her notes on the large panelled desk, “that when I got your profile as one of my new tutees, I had never heard of Raymond. But I did a little background so I would at least know the basics, and I believe my extensive knowledge of similar authors from the time and genre should make me a qualified tutor for you. I shall actually be looking forward to what you will write: I’ll learn something new, instead of another thesis on Shakespeare!” Dr. Nottim smiled conspiratorially at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth found Dr. Nottim very approachable and not at all what she had expected. In fact, both Elizabeth and Dr. Nottim were unusual in their fields, young and relatively attractive women. They stood out from the fields of socially awkward and homely men who still dominated the upper levels of the academic world in Oxford. Elizabeth had expected Dr. Nottim to be an old, grey haired man, but instead was a vivacious woman with porcelain skin and black, with a tinge of blue, think hair. She had a very easy smile, and Elizabeth felt that this would be the perfect tutor to help her build a thesis.

Together they worked out a tentative calendar for Elizabeth’s research and eventual publication. Looking two years down the road seemed exciting, Elizabeth’s dream was to research Raymond, and now she was to have an entire two years devoted to it. “Or more, if you don’t stay on track or write something stupid!” She chastised herself. Dr. Nottim got her back on track, “Now, we’ll have weekly meetings here in my office to talk about how your research is going and for me to give you suggestions about further avenues of research or topics to consider. Other than that, you are free to use your time most wisely, and the entire slew of libraries in Oxford is at your disposal! You have some housing?”

Elizabeth explained the quaint surroundings she had picked for herself. “Great” said Dr. Nottim “find a place in Charlbury you can write, and go there often, even if you have nothing to write. The discipline is what is important. And, Elizabeth, enjoy Oxford!” As she shook Dr. Nottim hand and walked over the old wooden floors to the domed hallway, Elizabeth thought, “I’m not just going to enjoy Oxford, I’m going to relish it!”