The Migration by Helen Marshall

Author:Helen Marshall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 2019-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

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We head down a narrow footpath and eventually come to an old churchyard on private grounds belonging to Oriel College. Ahead of us looms Bartlemas Chapel, a fragment of the fourteenth century tucked away behind the busy main road. Its walls are the colour of parchment, adorned with slender arches.

“It was a leper hospital, would you believe it?” Martin says quietly while he pours wine for me into a plastic cup. He twists the bottle to prevent the last drop from catching, just like the waiters would at the fancy restaurants Dad sometimes took us to. It makes me laugh.

“Pilgrims came from miles around to touch the relics. Apparently, they have the comb of Edward the Confessor, which cures headaches. They’ve also got the crosses of St. Andrew and St. Philip, and a piece of skin from St. Bartholomew…I saw them once when we went to mass here. I always thought it was strange what they did with the bodies of saints. Collecting the bits that were left over after these horrible things had happened.”

The pale violet dusk is settling into indigo and there is a handful of early stars in the sky. The air is warm even now, redolent of grass and peat and old stone. Liv has laid out a felted blanket for us, settling in next to Redmond. Others have begun to filter into the clearing, faces I recognize from the funeral. More blankets appear and the gloom gives way to a party atmosphere, the sound of Redmond laughing as he uncorks another bottle. Bryan, sitting nearby, glances in my direction and I want to let some part of me lean against him. What if? But I don’t. Instead, I smile, and he smiles back.

Martin passes us a bottle of thirty-year-old scotch that burns as it goes down. This helps. “That cost two-hundred quid,” he moans as the liquid disappears, but no one seems to care.

“Enough of that now, Paisley.” Redmond slaps him on the back. Martin looks back owlishly, but then he shrugs. Someone murmurs to me that his grandparents were landed gentry. I guess two hundred quid doesn’t mean so much to him.

Bryan seems happy enough to be here but a bit uncomfortable too.

“It’s just that they’re students,” he whispers to me when I ask him what’s wrong. “It’s all a bit posh, isn’t it?”

This last makes me start to laugh until I realize he’s serious. I’m still getting used to living in a city like Oxford where so much is controlled by the university and geared toward students. It must be hard for him, not being a part of that.

“So what am I doing here?”

“It’s different for you. You’re not from here. Your accent doesn’t give you away, where you were born, who your parents were and how much money they had. You can be anything you want.”

“And them?”

“They were Jamie’s friends. And—Astrid’s.”

“She was a student?” I peer at him, surprised he’s willing to talk about her. But the wine and Martin’s scotch have left him relaxed.

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