Ronald 

Oxford, 1931

Ronald looks at his watch. 12.30. His next tutorial session is not until 3pm, so he has time for a leisurely lunch. He is not looking forward to his afternoon appointment with Chadwick: his student’s PhD thesis, that is loosely entitled “The Monsters and Beowulf”, is dull and uninspired. Even the title is hackneyed. Ronald finds it hard to focus as Chadwick tries to justify his proposal, but Chadwick’s flat voice and pedestrian thinking drains Ronald of any enthusiasm, so his blathering goes in one ear and swiftly out of the other. He has come to the conclusion that all teaching is exhausting and depressing. As he makes his way from Pembroke along Pusey Street towards his preferred watering hole, he weighs up the drudgery of teaching with the delight of writing. On the whole, he decides suffering with the Chadwicks of this world are worth the joys of storytelling. 

Ronald sits down with his pint of bitter in his usual corner. He likes the Rabbit Room at the Bird and Baby: it’s his favourite haunt for lunch and a chat with his fellow academics. For the moment he’s on his own, free to stretch his out his legs, enjoy his pipe, and watch the world go by as he waits for his ham and mustard sandwich. Jean, the landlady, is fond of Ronald. She’s concerned that he is a little on the thin side, so always gives him an extra thick slices of bread. Her husband, Alfred, is an affable man, with an easy charm that makes his customers feel at home and welcomed. He has been in the pub business man and boy; now in his seventies, he still works ten hour shifts with ease. He looks more like an old salt than a publican: not tall, solidly-built, blue captain’s cap, white beard and immense black boots. He has bushy eyebrows that seem to have a life and personality of their own, sticking out beyond the peak of his cap. He’s a gifted raconteur, and has an endless collection of shaggy dog stories for anyone willing to listen when business is quiet. He will lean on the bar and tell tall tales of past glories, his eyebrows bobbing up and down in accompaniment. “Oh, Alf, you really take the biscuit!” chides Jean when he’s telling a story with dubious providence. But no-one seems to mind, happy to spend a lazy hour or two in Alfred’s company. 

Ronald wonders if some of the stories that he’s been writing will be so well received: some have been published in minor magazines, but he has yet to complete the novel that has been roaming back and forth in his mind for the past couple of years. It’s a children’s story, set in a magical land filled with curious and remarkable creatures: dwarves and elves, goblins and wizards. He is ruminating over one of the main characters: a sagacious but unpredictable sorcerer. Ronald’s friends –– at least his fellow Inklings –– have been encouraging and scathing in equal measure, but he’s grateful for their continued enthusiasm for his offerings. He carries a deep sadness that his wife does not share this enthusiasm, more concerned with the needs of their young boys and keeping house at Northmoor Road. Their home is cosy and comfortable; Ronald leaves all decisions concerning household matters to Edith, and he is astounded by her ability to whip up tasty meals with their limited grocery budget. He is particularly fond of her raspberry jam and apple tart, using windfalls from the garden. She has wrapped a couple of buttered scones in greaseproof paper and popped them in his briefcase, which, with a lovely pot of tea, made up his elevenses. A second breakfast, of sorts. 

He hears Andrew’s laughter before he sees him. Andrew has a warm, sonorous laugh, bright coal eyes with deep crow’s feet. His chin is permanently stubbled and he rarely pays a visit to the barber’s shop. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and his dusty overalls have seen better days, but, as Andrew frequently points out, his customers hire him for his carpentry skills, not for his fine tailoring. Ronald admires Andrew very much: he’s a gifted restoration carpenter, a man with whom he would not expect to have much in common. One man who works solely with his hands, whilst the other makes his living with his intellect. Andrew is in demand for his meticulous work and artistic skill, able to find just the right wood and grain to repair the ancient fixtures of Oxford’s venerable buildings. Alfred employed him to replace some of the wainscotting in the pub that had been nibbled by mice and warped by the coal fire. As an added extra Andrew built a triangular bookshelf into a gap between the wall and low ceiling from an off-cut of oak. Ronald jokes that it will one day be filled with first edition copies of his books; until then it is occupied by a benevolent Toby jug that grins down at the Inklings as they discuss their work. Andrew is sitting at the bar, gobbling up a hearty portion of cold chicken and pickles, and a generous slice of Jean’s seed cake. Between mouthfuls, he is chatting with Alfred. Ronald cannot quite make out their conversation, but he can hear that Andrew is clearly amused –– probably by one of Alfred’s preposterous tales. 

At the other end of the bar is another regular, a tall, rangy man, with a high forehead and long salt-and-pepper hair that is swept back off his face. G –– he only ever goes by the first letter of his name –– is an introverted, almost taciturn man, who prefers the company of his dog and his newspaper. He’s tucked away behind his copy of The Times, his hand reaching for his pint from time to time. His black labrador, Mollie, is settled at his feet. After a while, he folds his newspaper, and gives Mollie’s ears an affectionate ruffle. He has the appearance of an Oxford don: somewhat rumpled and old-fashioned suit and horn-rimmed spectacles, but G’s profession is law. After the war, he resumed his studies in jurisprudence at Corpus Christi and now has a practice on New Inn Hall Street. He and Ronald have occasionally talked about their experiences of the war, but only when both have had a little too much to drink and have been more willing to recall their days as young officers at the Western Front. Sometimes G becomes enraged as he recalls the monstrous loss of life, but Ronald waits for the squall of emotion to pass through and for G to regain his calm. G appreciates his friend’s kindness: “There is more in you of good than you know,” he says. G’s name is a mystery to most of the regulars, but Ronald knows the secret: the G stands for Goodheart –– a name bestowed courtesy of his maternal grandmother, Goodheart being her maiden name. G rummages in his jacket pocket and pulls out a tobacco pouch and pipe. He has a gift for making smoke rings, and he does so now, carefully, thoughtfully, as if each ring represents a well-crafted opening argument in court.

Ronald finishes the last bites of his sandwich, and drains his beer mug. Wiping a dab of mustard from the corner of his mouth, it dawns on him that in G, Andrew and Alfred he has all that he needs to create his mystical wizard. He takes his pen and a scrap of paper from his pocket and starts to scribble down his thoughts.