The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [8]
William’s first reaction was to think that the winner of the prize essay competition had been leaked to her and that he had indeed achieved his victory. On reflection, he realized that could not be the case: the examiners would only have received the essays that morning and since all the assessors read each submission, the results could not possibly be forthcoming until at least the end of the week. Philippa did not look up when he reached her side—he was even unsure whether she was aware of his presence. As he stopped to gaze at his adversary William could not help noticing how her long red hair curled just as it touched the shoulder. He sat down beside her, but still she did not stir.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do?”
She raised her head, revealing a face flushed from crying.
“No, nothing, William, except leave me alone. You deprive me of solitude without affording me company.”
William was pleased that he immediately recognized the little literary allusion. “What’s the matter, Madame de Sévigné?” he asked, more out of curiosity than concern, torn between sympathy and pleasure at catching her with her guard down.
It seemed a long time before she replied.
“My father died this morning,” she said finally, as if speaking to herself.
It struck William as strange that after three years of seeing Philippa almost every day, he knew nothing about her home life.
“And your mother?” he said.
“She died when I was three. I don’t even remember her. My father is—” she paused “—was a parish priest and brought me up, sacrificing everything he had to get me to Oxford, even the family silver. I wanted so much to win the Charles Oldham for him.”
William put his arm tentatively on Philippa’s shoulder.
“Don’t be absurd. When you win the prize, they’ll pronounce you the star pupil of the decade. After all, you will have had to beat me to achieve the distinction.”
She tried to laugh. “Of course I wanted to beat you, William, but only for my father.”
“How did he die?”
“Cancer, only he never let me know. He asked me not to go home before the summer term as he felt the break might interfere with my finals and the Charles Oldham. While all the time he must have been keeping me away because he knew if I saw the state he was in, that would have been the end of my completing any serious work.”
“Where do you live?” asked William, again surprised that he did not know.
“Brockenhurst. In Hampshire. I’m going back there tomorrow morning. The funeral’s on Wednesday.”
“May I take you?” asked William.
Philippa looked up and was aware of a softness in her adversary’s eyes that she had not seen before. “That would be kind, William.”
“Come on then, you silly woman,” he said. “I’ll walk you back to your college.”
“Last time you called me ‘silly woman’ you meant it.”
William found it natural that they should hold hands as they walked along the riverbank. Neither spoke until they reached Somerville.
“What time shall I pick you up?” he asked, not letting go of her hand.
“I didn’t know you had a car.”
“My father presented me with an old MG when I was awarded a first. I have been longing to find some excuse to show the damn thing off to you. It has push-button ignition, you know.”
“Obviously he didn’t want to risk waiting to give you the car on the Charles Oldham results.” William laughed more heartily than the little dig merited.
“Sorry,” she said. “Put it down to habit. I shall look forward to seeing if you drive as appallingly as you write, in which case the journey may never come to any conclusion.