BY PHILIP LOWE

My dearest wife has written her own memories in a book and has inspired me to write my own. I feel a little cautious in sharing my own memories of relationships and journeys. As long as everything I have experienced has brought me here, it is excusable.

I pray that our children do not experience the doubt, duplicity, and pain that I had.

I do not wish to deny the work my father must have effected, yet I believe, as my own future has taught me, he could have behaved differently—not only towards me.

My early teenage years became ripe picking fields. As I grew, my opinions changed.

At times, I recalled memories I thought were lost. Some were too uncomfortable. I have been able to reflect many times on motives and aspirations, yet it seems there has always been a different hand directing my path.

I do not know how my wife has relieved her life and her own difficulties. She must be so much stronger than me. Reader, I love her.

May Morning on Magdalene College

I suppose one of my earliest memories is a journey to Oxford. I was in a carriage with my parents whom seemed more excited than I, and my father was looking forward to seeing his old college. He was wearing a dark suit I had not seen before, and my mother was wearing an unfamiliar eau de cologne.

For some reason, I recall that it was a very rainy day—the dark clouds outside were at odds with what my parents were wearing. I remember arriving at Oxford, and when he arrived at his college, I witnessed my father presenting something like a smile—like his suit, I had never seen that before.

My mother did not enter the college as we did, for she left with the carriage. Unusually, on that day there were many carriages arriving and departing.

My father entered the college first, and the men at the gate recognised him, bowing and laughing. My father unceremoniously entered the college, and there was a huge green patch of grass which my father said was called a “quad”—in this case, “Tom Quad,” so-called after the bell in Tom Tower. As he told me these things, I thought my father sounded irritated, impatient.

I followed my father, and we both arrived at a door to the left of the “quad.” My father looked at me and deeply let out an exasperated breath. 

The door opened as we arrived, and a black-clad servant girl ushered us up the stairs. A long flight of stairs to the right.

There were many pictures on the wall as we both climbed the stairs, my father with more purpose and energy than I. I was overwhelmed by the place, not least the pictures adorning the walls. We had very few pictures at Thornfield Hall.

We reached the top of the stairs to hear voices in a nearby room. My father entered the room without invitation. I followed close behind.

In the room, there was an elderly man in clerical uniform talking to a much younger man. His attention switched to my father, and he ignored the other man like he was dropping a book.

“My goodness! How wonderful to see you, Edward!”

The two shook hands, and the elderly man clasped my father and laughed.

“And I see you have another in your company.”

He turned to me and shook my hand, still laughing. I was dumbfounded to receive such attention. The old man directed me to a chair and rang a bell on a nearby table. Immediately, I noticed that there were many pictures on the walls.

“Yes, this is my son. Edward.”

“And I see you are sporting a moustache! How time has fled by!”

The younger man left the room silently, seeing that his time with the old man was over. Another entered the room dressed like the men we had seen at the gate to this college.

“Ah, Rob, some tea here, please! And sweets and biscuits for this young man here!”

I was surprised and delighted to receive such attention. Even my father looked surprised.

“I hope we are not interrupting, Sir.”

“Not at all! Not at all! In fact, it is good to escape the company of my student whom you saw. A tiresome mind. No theologian here! I think he thinks a lot more of himself than anything else. We were just talking about Cartesian theology—he cannot separate Kant’s belief in the supernatural and not the superstitious! Heigh Ho. But tell me what you have been doing since last we met. Aha.”

The old man heralded the arrival of his sweets. The biscuits and the rest were brought in in bowls supported by a tray. As soon as they were out on the table, the old man grabbed and stuffed in his mouth what I assumed were long lemon drops. I only recognised langues de chat, which I was rarely given.

“Oh, oh, how lovely! Take some, Edward!” He directed this to my father. As he spoke, however, a clap of thunder hit, and my father walked to the window; when he arrived, it began to rain heavily, and the drops lashed at the glass. As he looked out of the window, the old man emptied a pot of sugar-coated fruit chews into my pocket. He smiled and put a finger to his lips as if it were to be our secret.

He almost fell into his chair that looked like a pile of cushions—I am sure I saw his hand touching the floor to balance and adjust his position.

My father turned, and a plump grey-haired lady entered the room. Obviously, from somewhere else in the building, as she was dry.

“Edwardo!”—she shouted this as she hurried to my father. She seemed to be thanking him as she kissed him on both cheeks. I could not understand what she was saying in her native tongue. She then turned to the old man as she looked at the bowls, tutted, smiled, and waved an admonitory finger. She pulled at my father’s moustache, then showed my father her wedding ring. He raised his eyebrows, and she swept away, kissing the old man on the top of his head. Again, a first for me on this day of firsts.

I was very impressed by my father being able to speak the language I could not. The two men spent a good hour conversing in this language. The old man looked at me a few times and smiled. I liked him immensely.

My father announced that we would have to leave. He shook hands with the old man, promising to see him in the morning. I had no idea what this meant.

We walked for about half an hour, as my father said we were off to the Ashmolean Museum. I was really excited to see this as my mother had told me that Joseph’s coat of many colours could be found here.

I could not share my excitement with my father as I knew it would be dismissed. An impression I developed years before.

In the Ashmolean, there was no trace of the coat of many colours, and I could not see anyone who would tolerate questions from me. Sooner than expected, my father said it was time to go. We walked back to Christ Church college and entered; we were taken to rooms, and my father seemed familiar with these rooms, one of which, he said, was his old room. He told me to get to sleep quickly. 

He also said, “You should not be hungry given your treatment earlier.” He seemed to scowl, then turned away to his own quarters.

I was hungry and, to be blunt, scared.

I was roused by a knock at my door. A “scout” brought me a tray with a glass of water and some sandwiches. After I had eaten all this, I suddenly remembered the sweet biscuits that had been tipped into my pocket. I ate and retired to my bed.

I lay awake and thought. 

I thought mostly about my father. Was he objectionable? Should I have liked him? I thought not, as I was scared of him. 

What language had he been using that I did not understand? If I had a child, I would not leave him or her as excluded as I felt.

Then I remembered. Indeed, we did have a picture on the wall at Thornfield of Christ Church College, my father’s Alma Mater Studiorum.

Where was my mother?

I was woken by my father banging at my door. He entered my room and ordered me to dress immediately. The sky was still rather grey. 

My father said we would climb a tower to see the sunrise.

Once dressed, we moved across the quad together. Despite the early hour, the college was remarkably busy. There were smiles and yawns and generally a good mood. I was mystified.

After climbing the tower, I felt rather dizzy with the height as I saw the ground way below. This was made worse as it was very windy as I emerged to the top. The sky was brightening, and there was the noise of friendly talk all about. I noticed the presence of the old man I had met the day before, and he nodded and smiled at me; he was dressed in clerical red and white, as were several others.

A short while later, a whistle was blown, and my father stood with a choir of singers. 

They sang:

Summer is icumen in

Loude sing cuckoo

Sow is sed

And grow is med

And Spring is good anew

Sing cuckoo!

Even here at the top of the tower, the wind carried away the singing.

After they had finished, the old man came over to me, saying, “Those down below are trying to drown us out!”

I do not know how those at the bottom of the tower could hear anything if the wind was taking away the sound at the top.

The old man shook my father’s hand, and the grey-haired woman appeared. She smiled at me and ruffled my hair.

The old cleric said, “I hope that we meet again sooner than before.” He looked to me, then he laughed, “Tempus fugit!”

He looked again at my father and said, “You’ve changed.” It was received like a parting shot.

We climbed down the spiral staircase. Out onto the main road at the bottom of the tower, cheering was directed to a figure standing on the bridge, whom I could barely see. I heard rather than saw him—a huge splash ensued, followed by cheers from the crowd assembled near the bridge. My father then said, “Fools.” I guessed that he who jumped must have been really cold.

The next half hour saw us arrive at Radcliffe Square. My father pointed to the Camera and said, “That used to be my library.”

My mother arrived with smiles. Just then, a dance started nearby, and as I looked around, there were many dressed in gaudy attire, and my mother told me they were Morris men.

I was transfixed. Rehearsed dancing with sticks, musicians, jugglers—it was wonderful. They were all wearing coats of many colours. I saw glasses of beer being passed around this truly exciting spectacle.

I felt that a bigger show would arrive later. The jugglers, singers—everyone—smiled at me as they showed off their skills. There was a large pole being erected as I arrived. Yet I did not see anyone addressing or using it.

I heard a buzzing voice and saw that there was even a Punch and Judy show in the square. I knew of these shows on beaches and did not understand why there was one here. Early though it was, there were children there already enjoying the puppets.

My father, however, suggested it was time to go, so we left the square to my chagrin. We walked to find our carriage. His mood, for some reason, was as dark as his suit. So I asked my mother what we had seen.

She said, “It is Mayday!”

I had no idea what she meant, but I knew not to annoy my father by asking. 

So there were events like this. I had no idea and slept in the carriage thinking of all I had briefly beheld. How I would have loved to stay. So much more exciting than life at Thornfield.