Chapter 5

Perhaps the newness was wearing off. Or maybe it was the bleakness of the February morning, but Elizabeth felt that the fun was over and she was working now. She thought it could never happen, but researching had turned into a job just like working as a waitress or sitting in an office. Of course, she still enjoyed her ‘job’ more than waitressing or office work, but it was feeling like a job, nonetheless. As she trudged through the busy streets, dodging pedestrians and dirty spray from the buses, she wished, momentarily, that she could take off for a tropical country. Having visited her fair share of southern locales, Elizabeth could feel the breeze, touch the sand and taste the juicy pineapple in her head. Her overactive imagination did nothing to squelch her mental travels. But as she rounded the corner of Lantern Lane, she once again felt a sense of awe at the size and beauty of the Radcliffe Camera and some of her joy returned. She was excited about the reading she planned to do for the day – she felt she was onto a lead that would reveal more of Raymond’s personal life. “And after I put in a few hours in the Upper Cam, I’ll treat myself to a hot chocolate at Brothers Café,” she thought to herself. Although she knew using food as motivation was always a bad idea, she’d wanted a hot chocolate for days, and it was certainly bleak and dark enough to deserve one today.

She showed her card to the porter, and then climbed the stairs to the Upper Cam. She walked to the librarian’s desk, and smiled: “Books for Hanover, please.” The friendly librarian (versus the 4 other unfriendly ones that worked at different shifts) handed her a tall stack of books. “Enjoy!” he said, with what she construed to be a touch of sarcasm.

Picking up a jar of ink, Elizabeth went up the circular staircase, and found her favourite desk, 117, to unload. Umbrella next to the railing, book bag on the right side of the desk. Coat, scarf and mittens over the back of the chair, and her treasured stack of books on the left side of the desk. She then extracted her A4 size notebook, and her favourite dip pen. One of her favourite little treats was her wooden dip pen and the old jars of ink and blotting paper supplied by the Bodleian. It seemed like a throwback to a bygone area, and she had never seen anyone use the ink except herself. But for Elizabeth, it was a way to communicate, in some way, with Mae Raymond, and to avoid a generational distance by typing her notes on the computer. Besides, she hated lugging her laptop from Charlbury to Oxford everyday and it seemed so obnoxious to be clicking away in the silent, hallowed hall of the Upper Cam. Instead, she liked things the old fashioned way, a dip pen and ink and her brain.

She looked through the stack of books for the one she had been waiting for. It was a research work called Allibone’s Guide to 19th Century Literature and it had taken over three weeks to retrieve, because some other reader had it. She had found out that Mae Raymond was listed in this work, by doing some research online. She hoped it would be a breakthrough, because Raymond wasn’t listed in any of the many other reference books Elizabeth had tried. Although she was working at a good speed on Mae’s works, Elizabeth had reached a bit of an impasse with her work on Raymond’s life, because she simply wasn’t an important enough figure on the literary scene to deserve much of a mention.

Elizabeth opened Allibone’s and flipped to the R’s. Raymond, Mae. “Born -
Died - Works published:…” “Ugghh!” Thought Elizabeth, “I know her published works, I can find that in the Bodleian catalogue, what I need is something other than a black space for when she was born and when she died!” She closed the book and put in on the bottom of the stack. Another dead end. She grabbed the Raymond novel she was currently taking notes on, and opened it, trying to forget her frustration.
She didn’t stay long at the Bodleian, her frustration was compounded by thoughts of hot chocolate. “I think I’ll call it a day for the sake of my mental sanity, I deserve some hot chocolate and window shopping at Monsoon.” And that’s just what she did.

Elizabeth’s frustrating February day was quickly forgotten once she got off the train in Charlbury. She made a point of taking a late afternoon train so she could miss the commuter rush, which she disdained. So she arrived back just as the sun had fallen below the horizon. “Now the long walk home” she sighed as she started tentatively across the parking lot, for fear of slipping. Fortunately it wasn’t too icy, but the cold air was still very demoralizing, and as much as Elizabeth wanted to be at home in front of the fire, she didn’t think she had the strength to get from here to there. She stood at the end of the driveway to the train station, looking up the first big hill. She didn’t realize that she had actually stopped to stare, until a car pulled up beside her, and she heard: “Is everything alright there?” She turned, to see Abby, the florist, leaning her head out of a very small car’s window. “Oh, hello Abby. Yes, I’m fine, I was just stopping to think” Elizabeth explained with a small laugh. “Well, hop in, then!” Abby said brusquely, turning to face the road. Elizabeth’s desperation made her quick to move and slow to ask questions. “Oh, thank you so much.” She wasn’t sure whether she had been offered a ride home, to Abby’s home, or just to the top of the hill, but anything was better than being in the cold a minute longer.

It turned out that the offer was for a ride all the way home to the farm. “I do hope you’re enjoying your time in Charlbury, dear, it is such a lovely place, don’t you think?” Abby’s offer of conversation caught Elizabeth pleasantly by surprise. “Oh, yes, it’s everything I hoped it would be when I dreamed about living in the countryside. And Banbury Hill is really the perfect place to live; I feel so safe and snug there.” “Ah, yes,” replied Abby with a smile that made Elizabeth feel she was missing out on the joke, “I can imagine you’re quite cozy there.” “What do you mean?” Asked Elizabeth, honestly confused. Well, Abby explained to Elizabeth that her name had been linked to Barrett’s, romantically, and it was the gossip of the town. “Oh, dear me, no! I’ve hardly talked to Mr. Barrett. Who would start such a rumour?” Elizabeth asked, dismayed. “Oh, it doesn’t take much these days to get the old hags talking, you know, any fresh blood in the town and they have to think of some romantic pairings. All in good fun, all in good fun.” Elizabeth didn’t think anyone gossiping about her was in good fun, but she was never good at confrontations, so she let it pass.

They pulled up to the front of Ravenwood cottage. “Here you are, dear” said Abby. “Thank you again; I don’t think I could have survived such a long, cold walk.” Elizabeth said, climbing out and leaning back through the doorframe to thank Abby. Elizabeth turned to close the car door, but Abby quickly added: “Now don’t mind yourself about that gossip about you and Mr. Barrett, I’ll put a stop to any I hear. But I do think you should get to know the man, have tea or something. He is a lovely fellow.” And with that, Abby, her cold winter night saviour, drove off, leaving Elizabeth with her words to ponder.

Finally – Saturday! Elizabeth had the choice of working in the library any day of the week that she liked, but she had chosen to stick with a traditional work week schedule for continuity. Saturday’s were her days to spend in and around the village and farm, trying to pretend that she really did live there, and wasn’t just a tourist, even though some of the locals still insisted on treating her like one. She began her day with a slow start, a relaxing breakfast of Lady Grey Tea with milk and tea biscuits. She listened to her favourite CD, and enjoyed the feeling of sitting on the sofa, doing absolutely nothing. Well, actually she was doing something – she was looking out the window at the cold, dark morning, and being incredibly thankful that it was Saturday and she wouldn’t have to go into ‘work.’ She then went about the tasks of cleaning herself up, cleaning her clothes up (which involved two rather painfully cold runs to the shed to drop off and pick up her laundry), and then cleaning her house up. When she was done, she felt much more put together, although the cottage looked no cleaner, because there was wet laundry hanging everywhere.

“Now, what do I need to go into town? My purse, an extra sweater, mittens…” Elizabeth was busy making her mental list when she heard a knock at the front door. (Actually, Elizabeth never knew whether it was the front or the back door. One door faced onto the street and one door faced onto the driveway. It was a matter of personal opinion which was the ‘front.’) She went to open it, expecting it to be the neighbour asking to borrow her kettle again. Instead, she was surprised to see Mr. Barrett standing there. “Oh, umm, hello. Ahhh, can I help you? I mean, would you like to come in?” Elizabeth was mad at herself for being flustered; it was all those old gossips in the town’s fault. Mr. Barrett either did not notice or was kind enough to pretend he did not notice, “Well, actually I stopped by to ask you out, I mean I can’t come in because I’m on my way out and I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”

“Well, that depends” Elizabeth gained some of her composure, “on where you are going.” “Ahh, I suppose I did forget to mention that. Well, I thought perhaps you might be interested in going to the Farmer’s Market. It only comes to Charlbury once every two months or so, and it’s rather a big to-do for the village. Even if there’s nothing you need to buy, it’s part of being a Charlburian.” Mr. Barrett finished his little advertisement and waited. Elizabeth was torn. On one hand, she would quite enjoy a farmer’s market and getting a chance to talk more with Mr. Barrett. On the other hand, it would be just the fodder needed to start the gossip ring again, since he made it sound like everyone in town turns out for this. “Oh well,” thought Elizabeth to herself, “let them talk.” And to Mr. Barrett, she said “I’d love to go.”

It had been an hour already, and they were only half way around the small circle of booths set up in the green. Elizabeth counted only about 15 booths total, but the social aspect of the event obviously took precedence over the commercial aspect. At each booth they were expected to stop to talk to the vendor first about his product, then perhaps about her sick dog, etc. Once that was completed, it was obligatory to turn to whatever other neighbours were at the booth and start long conversations about the weather. Elizabeth was somewhat floored. She had heard that British people liked to talk about the weather, and she had encountered it a few times since moving here, but never in this quantity. Everyone had an opinion, and most people felt quite strongly about the weather. She was beginning to understand that it was a very big faux paux to disagree with someone’s opinion on the weather, they were held that strongly.

The next booth Elizabeth and Mr. Barrett walked towards seemed to be selling all sorts of honey. “Honey?” “No, thank you, Mr. Barrett.” “You know, you can just call me Barrett, that’s what my friends call me.”

Elizabeth was surprised. They had been wandering and talking for an hour and she had known him for almost two months now, and he was only now letting her stop calling him “Mr.”? It was a puzzle, but she decided to overlook it. “Thanks, Barrett, I will.”

The Farmer’s Market was an enjoyable experience for Elizabeth even though she didn’t buy anything, just as Barrett had promised. Well, that’s not true, she did buy two cups of tea to help her get through the hours of conversation standing in the chilly, muddy grass, and she had bought some little chocolate cookies because they were just too cute. Barrett had bought some beef, which turned Elizabeth’s stomach. She had to stand over next to the statue, in order not to see the truck filled with slabs of red, bloody meat. Now, Barrett was carrying the meat in a brown wrapped package, which Elizabeth was glad of. They started off towards the farm.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what Canadians were like, if you were really different from Americans or just the same.” “Your conclusion?” Elizabeth asked, hoping for an answer she would like. “Well, I think you’re quite different from the Americans I’ve known, but since you’re the only Canadian I’ve ever really talked with, it’s hard for me to tell if it’s just you or the whole lot of you.” Barrett said, with a thoughtful expression that made Elizabeth want to laugh. She helped him out, “well, some Canadians are quite a bit like Americans, but I’ll tell you now, as a whole, we prefer to be told we are a unique and distinct nationality, especially apart from Americans. Just a little hint.” Barrett smiled and laughed, “I think the Scots feel that way, too.”