Oxford — Saturday 24 July 1915

David returned from Windsor in the late afternoon, then he relaxed in his quarters reading about shaping and placing plastic explosives. Hunger pangs prompted him to look at his watch. Nineteen fifteen already. Missed Mess. Likely excused, anyway. He closed the book and stretched. Need something to eat. Wonder if there's anything finer than stodge out there.

He dressed into his casual trousers and shirt, put on his walking shoes, picked up his book and headed out into the warm summer evening. After two circuits of Radcliffe Square had found nothing to pique his interest, he turned into Brasenose Lane, which soon broadened to become Market Street. He saw nothing to entice him before Market ended at Cornmarket Street. The High Street's down that way. Been there. He looked to the right. Maybe this way.

Two blocks along he came to a crooked intersection and looked at the street signs. Two roads cross, but four different streets. Seems the streets change names every few blocks. Confusing. He continued in the same direction, but now on Magdalen Street. I've made only one turn in four blocks, and I'm already on my fifth street.

He strolled past a church sitting in a narrow park. Jumbled looking architecture. Appears as if it can't decide what style to be. Spotting a bronze plaque, he crossed the street to read it. No wonder it looks confused. Portions date to the twelfth century, some from the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth. Redesigned other parts in the 1840s.

A block farther along, the street name changed again, this time to St Giles. Getting rather hungry, need something soon. Looks like I'm back among college buildings. Maybe around here. A hundred yards along, he paused in front of the Eagle and Child. This pub'll have to do.

He stepped inside, pleased with the quietness. Not at all busy, not like the ones around Brasenose. Musn't be a cadet program around here. Pleasant. He looked at his watch. Wonder if the kitchen's still open. He made his way across the near-empty room to a table against the far wall and sat.

An old man looked up at him from behind the bar as he passed, then came to his table. "If you're wanting ta eat, all we've left is tiddy oggies."

David blew out a deep breath. "How big is your tiddy oggy?"

"Two's plenty unless you're starvin."

"Bring me two, then, and half a dark ale."

When the man returned with his ale, David commented, "Looks like college buildings along the street here."

"Aye. University College. Ta pub belongs t'em. Slow now with 'em all gone ta war."

University College? There's an OTC programme here, is there not? Where are the cadets? All the pubs around Brasenose are bustling with them."

"T'is out a bounds ta 'em." He looked over his shoulder. "Pasties'll be warm in a few minutes." He went back to his seat behind the bar, and David opened his book to his marker and continued reading about shaping plastic charges.

About ten minutes later, the bartender returned with a plate, set it on the table and commented, "Ya sound colonial. Where ya from?"

"Canada. Western Canada, in the mountains."

"Don't see Canadians here."

"There are many of us on course over at Brasenose College."

"And yer allowed in the pubs, ya said."

"We're all being commissioned from the ranks. Most of us have been in the trenches in France, Belgium and Gallipoli. It would be stupid to ban us from pubs."

"Aye, there's the difference. Here, they're all snotty-nosed kids. Easy to spot when they try to come in."

David nodded. "That makes it peaceful here. Too noisy around Brasenose." He looked at his plate and sighed. "What else is on your menu?"

"Always pot roast and shepherd's pie when we open at six thirty, but they're usually gone by seven. People come to eat now, not to socialise. Big change with the early closin' now."

"Early closing? What time?"

"Have to stop serving at nine thirty. Before the war, t'was ha' past midnight."

David nodded and pointed to his plate. "I should eat these before the grease congeals. May I have some cutlery, please?"

"Ya eat 'em with yer fingers. T'is what their design is. Swipe 'em through the pease and have at 'em." He shrugged and walked back to the bar.

How inelegant, David thought as he picked one up and scooped a glob of khaki-coloured stewed split peas onto the end and took a bite. Mashed turnip and potato with onions and diced over-cooked beef folded in a lard pastry, baked and served with peas pretending to be mud. God, how I miss proper food.

He left much of an oggy and most of his pease on his plate, finished his half-pint, paid the bartender, then headed back toward Brasenose. Must be some real food in Oxford. Surely not everyone's satisfied with this stodge. I'll have to ask. Surely the King doesn't eat stuff like this.

David retraced his route, and instead of turning into Market Street, he continued south to Main, then walked along it looking for restaurants. What wonderful flavours in the Chinese restaurants in Victoria and Vancouver, and all the fresh vegetables. Strange, I've seen no Chinese people here at all. They're so common at home.

He returned to his quarters having found no restaurants. Appears the pubs are where they eat, the old public houses and inns for travellers. Hotels. That's it, hotels. I dined well in the hotels in Bath and Bristol. God! That seems so long ago, now, my leave from the training on the Canterbury Plains, not yet five months since then.

After changing into his dressing gown and slippers, he sat at the desk to write a reply to the letter which had arrived Friday from his mother. He began reading it again to refresh his memory:

Our Dearest David;

You cannot imagine our relief when we received your postcard, then the telegram from the War Office. Your letter from Oxford arrived yesterday, so we now have an address to write to you.

Yes, I agree. Let's ignore the horrendous experiences and concentrate on the good ones. From your descriptions, Maria sounds to be quite the fine woman, and she seems to have captivated your heart. Move with thought and care, David. You're still young, and your free spirit needs expression, as does hers.

I often wonder what might have evolved had I not met your father. Had I not stopped my exploring and adventuring. We're happy, but you know how restrictive his attitudes are. The greatest way you can show love for Maria is to never restrict her spirit. Let her blossom and allow yourself to blossom also.

David stopped reading and sighed, then set the letter aside. I'll do this tomorrow. Too distracted. He picked up Maria's letter and smelled it, then got up and took a washcloth from the rail.