“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Come to take you to Stratford.”
“But I haven’t even had time to unpack the things I brought back from Brockenhurst.”
“Just do as you are told for once; I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”
“Of course,” she said. “Who am I to disobey the next winner of the Charles Oldham? I shall even allow you to come up to my room for one minute and help me unpack.”
The porter’s eyebrows nudged the edge of his cap but he remained silent, in deference to Miss Jameson’s recent bereavement. Again it surprised William to think that he had never been to Philippa’s room during their three years. He had climbed the walls of all the women’s colleges to be with a variety of girls of varying stupidity but never with Philippa. He sat down on the end of the bed.
“Not there, you thoughtless creature. The maid has only just made it. Men are all the same, you never sit in chairs.”
“I shall one day,” said William. “The chair of English Language and Literature.”
“Not as long as I’m at this University, you won’t,” she said, as she disappeared into the bathroom.
“Good intentions are one thing but talent is quite another,” he shouted at her retreating back, privately pleased that her competitive streak seemed to be returning.
Fifteen minutes later she came out of the bathroom in a yellow flowered dress with a neat white collar and matching cuffs. William thought she might even be wearing a touch of makeup.
“It will do our reputations no good to be seen together,” she said.
“I’ve thought about that,” said William. “If asked, I shall say you’re my charity.”
“Your charity?”
“Yes, this year I’m supporting distressed orphans.”
Philippa signed out of college until midnight and the two scholars traveled down to Stratford, stopping off at Broadway for lunch. In the afternoon they rowed on the River Avon. William warned Philippa of his last disastrous outing in a punt. She admitted that she had already heard of the exhibition he had made of himself, but they arrived safely back at the shore — perhaps because Philippa took over the rowing. They went to see John Gielgud playing Romeo and dined at the Dirty Duck. Philippa was even quite rude to William during the meal.
They started their journey home just after eleven and Philippa fell into a half sleep as they could hardly hear each other above the noise of the car engine. It must have been about twenty-five miles outside of Oxford that the MG came to a halt.
“I thought,” said William, “that when the petrol gauge showed empty there was at least another gallon left in the tank.”
“You’re obviously wrong, and not for the first time, and because of such foresight you’ll have to walk to the nearest garage all by yourself — you needn’t imagine that I’m going to keep you company. I intend to stay put, right here in the warmth.”
“But there isn’t a garage between here and Oxford,” protested William.
“Then you’ll have to carry me. I am far too fragile to walk.”
“I wouldn’t be able to manage fifty yards after that sumptuous dinner and all that wine.”
“It is no small mystery to me, William, how you could have managed a first class honors degree in English when you can’t even read a petrol gauge.”
“There’s only one thing for it,” said William. “We’ll have to wait for the first bus in the morning.”
Philippa clambered into the back seat and did not speak to him again before falling asleep. William donned his hat, scarf and gloves, crossed his arms for warmth, and touched the tangled red mane of Philippa’s hair as she slept. He then took off his coat and placed it so that it covered her.
Philippa woke first, a little after six, and groaned as she tried to stretch her aching limbs. She then shook William awake to ask him why his father hadn’t been considerate enough to buy him a car with a comfortable back seat.
“But this is the niftiest thing going,” said William, gingerly kneading his neck muscles before putting his coat back on.
“But it isn’t going, and won’t without petrol,” she replied, getting out of the car to stretch her legs.
“But I only let it run out for one reason,” said William, following her to the front of the car.
Philippa waited for a feeble punch line and was not disappointed.
“My father told me if I spent the night with a barmaid then I should simply order an extra pint of beer, but if I spent the night with the vicar’s daughter, I would have to marry her.”
Philippa laughed. William, tired, unshaven, and encumbered by his heavy coat, struggled to get down on one knee.
“What are you doing, William?”
“What do you think I’m doing, you silly woman. I am going to ask you to marry me.”
“An invitation I am happy to decline, William. If I accepted such a proposal I might end up spending the rest of my life stranded on the road between Oxford and Stratford.”
“Will you marry me if I win the Charles Oldham?”
“As there is absolutely no fear of that happening I can safely say, yes. Now do get off your knee, William, before someone mistakes you for a straying stork.”
The first bus arrived at five past seven that Saturday morning and took Philippa and William back to Oxford. Philippa went to her rooms for a long hot bath while William filled a petrol can and returned to his deserted MG. Having completed the task, he drove straight to Somerville and once again asked if he could see Miss Jameson. She came down a few minutes later.
“What, you again?” she said. “Am I not in enough trouble already?”
“Why so?”
“Because I was out after midnight, unaccompanied.”
“You were accompanied.”
“Yes, and that’s what’s worrying them.”
“Did you tell them we spent the night together?”
“No, I did not. I don’t mind our contemporaries thinking I’m promiscuous, but I have strong objections to their believing that I have no taste. Now kindly go away, as I am contemplating the horror of your winning the Charles Oldham and my having to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“You know I’m bound to win, so why don’t you come live with me now?”
“I realize that it has become fashionable to sleep with just anyone nowadays, William, but if this is to be my last weekend of freedom I intend to savor it, especially as I may have to consider committing suicide.”
“I love you.”
“For the last time, William, go away. And if you haven’t won the Charles Oldham don’t ever show your face in Somerville again.”
William left, desperate to know the result of the prize essay competition. Had he realized how much Philippa wanted him to win, he might have slept that night.
On Monday morning they both arrived early in the Examination Schools and stood waiting impatiently without speaking to each other, jostled by the other undergraduates of their year who had also been entered for the prize. On the stroke of ten the chairman of the examiners, in full academic dress, walking at tortoise-like pace, arrived in the great hall and with a considerable pretense at indifference pinned a notice to the board. All the undergraduates who had entered for the prize rushed forward except for William and Philippa who stood alone, aware that it was now too late to influence a result they were both dreading.
A girl shot out from the melee around the notice board and ran over to Philippa.
“Well done, Phil. You’ve won.”
Tears came to Philippa’s eyes as she turned toward William.
“May I add my congratulations,” he said quickly. “You obviously deserved the prize.”
“I wanted to say something to you on Saturday.”
“You did, you said if I lost I must never show my face in Somerville again.”