Black Chalk

XXII(iv) It was an epochal period for Chad, those first months at Pitt. One term, eight weeks, the very best days of his life. And his resentment toward Emilia for her delay of the Game quickly subsided because it was true there was much to see in and around the city. And although the Game was the next adventure Chad had in mind, Emilia’s adventures were not without their charms. For one or two days each week she became the group’s ringleader, insisting on trips to quaint Oxfordshire villages or arranging walks through the meadows, an afternoon in the Botanic Garden. The others sometimes made sour faces at the idea of watching rugby in the University Parks or enjoying an autumnal stroll through the woods. But Emilia knew how to sell her ideas to them. It wasn’t so much about the rugby as standing on the sidelines sharing hot toddies from a Thermos. The woods were next to a seventeenth-century riverside pub. And although Chad made his face sour as well, inside he was thrilled every time Emilia pulled them away from Pitt on another expedition.

They attended lectures in the mornings and convened as a group at some point every afternoon or evening. There were no formal arrangements for such gatherings. They would flock one by one at certain likely spots. Jolyon’s room, the college bar, dinner in the refectory. A patch of grass by the ancient tree in the gardens where Dee would sit and read until winter swept in hard toward the end of Michaelmas. At night they went everywhere together, a troupe of travelling actors enlivening every scene they slipped themselves into. The parties, the bars and concerts. The strange college discos that were referred to, in the university vernacular, as ‘bops’.

It was a term full of rapturous pleasures. And Chad believed he had stumbled by chance upon the very best people in the world. They all did. They were all so young.

XXII(v) ‘So what are you doing for Christmas, Chad?’ said Jolyon, clearing their plates away, pouring more tea. Jolyon made eggs for the two of them every Saturday morning. And then they would browse through the newspapers until lunchtime, reading out their favourite stories to one another.

‘I’m supposed to be going home,’ said Chad, picking up a newspaper, feigning an air of nonchalance as he opened it in his lap. ‘But with the deposit for the Game, I don’t think I can afford to. The other Americans are all flying back, so at least I’ll have the house to myself.’ He sipped the strong tea. It was becoming almost palatable. ‘Mom’ll be upset though. It’s bad enough I won’t be home for Thanksgiving this week.’

‘Why don’t you come home with me?’ said Jolyon. ‘If your house is empty we can hang out in the city a while. We only have to stay a week with my mother for Christmas, or longer if you want. I’ll show you how we do it over here.’

Chad loosened his grip on the newspaper, he could feel it almost beginning to tear. ‘I don’t want to impose, Jolyon,’ he said. ‘What would your mom think about this?’

‘I’ve asked her already,’ said Jolyon. ‘She can’t wait to meet you.’

XXII(vi) The eighth and final week of term became a time of celebration. The horse-chestnut leaves had fallen and Christmas was coming. They lived in a world of friendships and foggy mornings. Their days were cool and reeled along slowly. Nights buzzed by fast, warm with companionship and the air full of laughter.

Margaret Thatcher had resigned as prime minister midway through seventh week and Chad delighted his friends by pointing out that it was the day of Thanksgiving. He skipped the turkey meal with his housemates and they all partied in the bar, proclaiming a new age and toasting a thousand toasts. Most of Pitt had turned out for the occasion and there was even champagne, or something that sparkled at least. At the end of the night, Chad stood on a stool and shouted, ‘Happy Thanksgiving, happy Thanksgiving, everybody.’ Someone put Frank Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York’ on the jukebox and they hoisted Chad onto their shoulders. Everyone sang and everyone lifted their glasses to him as he was paraded around, kicking his legs to the beat.

Margaret Thatcher – whom Emilia would only ever refer to as Mrs Satan – would remain in office for nearly another week. And then on the Wednesday of the last week of term she officially departed and Jolyon threw a second party, this one in his room. Twenty people, maybe thirty, in a space no larger than a boxing ring. They drank tequila from the bottle and this soon became a contest until Chad, the last to fall, disgorged the contents of his stomach from Jolyon’s window, staining the ancient sandstone beneath. Dee brought to the party her record player and the soundtrack from The Wizard of Oz in an old corner-creased sleeve. The whole night long they played the same track over and over – ‘Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead’ – and everyone sang along feverishly.