was the title of her most well-known book. And
could she disentangle it, the stuff she’d seen in her mind’s eye, from the actual stuff of her own life? Well of course she bloody well could, she wasn’t a fantasist. And of
course she bloody well couldn’t. It was the whole point of being a writer, wasn’t it, to embrace the stuff of life? It was the whole point of
life
to embrace it.
‘Her Oxford years’! That was a case in point. Yes, she’d gone to Oxford. She could truly say that, but not in the way, of course, some people could say it.
Yet she would love to say gaily and freely in interviews, ‘Oh yes, I was at Oxford . . .’ ‘When I was at Oxford . . .’
Yes, she had gone to Oxford, in October 1924, to work as an assistant in a bookshop, Paxton’s Bookshop in Catchpole Lane. And books, she knew by then, were one of the necessities, the
rocks of her life.
It was her first job after being a maid and the first big step in life she had taken for herself. Not a big step, you might think, from maid to shop girl, but it had required some initiative and
daring, even some writerly skill, in answering the advert. And it had required Mr Niven’s cooperation in writing her a reference. Perhaps he had said that she’d made more use of his own
library than he had.
In any case she had got the job. And Mr Niven must have understood what a big step it was for her and that she was fully determined to take it, since when she left he gave her ten pounds (ten
pounds!) with which to set herself up in Oxford. And she had anyway the money she’d saved from her maid’s wages (not having a family that had any call on them), not to mention from the
occasional half-crowns and florins Mr Niven would bestow on her.
Mr Niven had learnt economy, but there were still the vestiges of largesse.
By this time Milly had left and there was a new cook called Winifred, and there would soon be a new maid too. And she, Jane Fairchild, would never know what became of Beechwood or Upleigh. She
would never go back. It was almost a superstition. Some things, some places perhaps take up their truer existence in the mind. Even when she had a car—especially when she had a car—she
would never go back, even just to drive by, to stop and look and wonder.
She went to Oxford, to work for Mr Paxton. She was only an assistant in a bookshop, but an able one, increasingly familiar with books and—what perhaps mattered most—very good with
customers, who ranged from mere townsfolk to the cream of the university, even professors. It soon became clear to Mr Paxton that he had acquired an asset. And it became clear soon enough too that
the increasing familiarity with books went with an increasing familiarity with the customers.
The fact was that she began to consort, to go out, even to go to bed with some of them, and it wouldn’t have been wrong to say that this is what she had hoped, even vaguely foreseen. If
she couldn’t have ‘gone to Oxford’ in the other sense, then she became intimate with those who had. It might even be said that she moved in university ‘circles’ even
more freely and successfully than many—poor swots that they were—who were actually
there
. She could even pass herself off quite convincingly as that rare and frightening
creature, a female undergraduate.
‘And what are you studying?’
‘Studying? Oh no, I’m just a shop girl.’
It was remarkable how their eyes might light up.
And later on she might dare to say, ‘I’m a shop girl, but—I write too.’
One day, in the little back office, Mr Paxton, close observer of all this and committed family man, had said, ‘I’m going to get a new typewriter, Jane. This thing has seen better
days.’ There was an awkwardly stoical look in his eye as if he might have been talking about himself. The old typewriter was perfectly serviceable.
‘Would you like it?’ he said.
And that, you might say, was when she really became a writer. The third
could she disentangle it, the stuff she’d seen in her mind’s eye, from the actual stuff of her own life? Well of course she bloody well could, she wasn’t a fantasist. And of
course she bloody well couldn’t. It was the whole point of being a writer, wasn’t it, to embrace the stuff of life? It was the whole point of
life
to embrace it.
‘Her Oxford years’! That was a case in point. Yes, she’d gone to Oxford. She could truly say that, but not in the way, of course, some people could say it.
Yet she would love to say gaily and freely in interviews, ‘Oh yes, I was at Oxford . . .’ ‘When I was at Oxford . . .’
Yes, she had gone to Oxford, in October 1924, to work as an assistant in a bookshop, Paxton’s Bookshop in Catchpole Lane. And books, she knew by then, were one of the necessities, the
rocks of her life.
It was her first job after being a maid and the first big step in life she had taken for herself. Not a big step, you might think, from maid to shop girl, but it had required some initiative and
daring, even some writerly skill, in answering the advert. And it had required Mr Niven’s cooperation in writing her a reference. Perhaps he had said that she’d made more use of his own
library than he had.
In any case she had got the job. And Mr Niven must have understood what a big step it was for her and that she was fully determined to take it, since when she left he gave her ten pounds (ten
pounds!) with which to set herself up in Oxford. And she had anyway the money she’d saved from her maid’s wages (not having a family that had any call on them), not to mention from the
occasional half-crowns and florins Mr Niven would bestow on her.
Mr Niven had learnt economy, but there were still the vestiges of largesse.
By this time Milly had left and there was a new cook called Winifred, and there would soon be a new maid too. And she, Jane Fairchild, would never know what became of Beechwood or Upleigh. She
would never go back. It was almost a superstition. Some things, some places perhaps take up their truer existence in the mind. Even when she had a car—especially when she had a car—she
would never go back, even just to drive by, to stop and look and wonder.
She went to Oxford, to work for Mr Paxton. She was only an assistant in a bookshop, but an able one, increasingly familiar with books and—what perhaps mattered most—very good with
customers, who ranged from mere townsfolk to the cream of the university, even professors. It soon became clear to Mr Paxton that he had acquired an asset. And it became clear soon enough too that
the increasing familiarity with books went with an increasing familiarity with the customers.
The fact was that she began to consort, to go out, even to go to bed with some of them, and it wouldn’t have been wrong to say that this is what she had hoped, even vaguely foreseen. If
she couldn’t have ‘gone to Oxford’ in the other sense, then she became intimate with those who had. It might even be said that she moved in university ‘circles’ even
more freely and successfully than many—poor swots that they were—who were actually
there
. She could even pass herself off quite convincingly as that rare and frightening
creature, a female undergraduate.
‘And what are you studying?’
‘Studying? Oh no, I’m just a shop girl.’
It was remarkable how their eyes might light up.
And later on she might dare to say, ‘I’m a shop girl, but—I write too.’
One day, in the little back office, Mr Paxton, close observer of all this and committed family man, had said, ‘I’m going to get a new typewriter, Jane. This thing has seen better
days.’ There was an awkwardly stoical look in his eye as if he might have been talking about himself. The old typewriter was perfectly serviceable.
‘Would you like it?’ he said.
And that, you might say, was when she really became a writer. The third
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