Oxford Mourning

The sound of the bells carried through the noise of the traffic.  It floated past Magdalen College, drifted over Magdalen Bridge and up a small green hill.  There, it reached a group of people sitting on the grass.  They stared down into the blue haze, at the view of domes and towers, trees and spires, and listened to the sound of the bells.

Slightly apart from the others, the young woman they called Angel turned her back on the charming view.  She sat with rigid shoulders and gazed instead at a terrace of Edwardian houses which marched down the hill, veiling their windows with net curtains. 

‘Oxford!’ said Ant, in her ear, lifting up the flap of pale hair that hid her face from the others.  ‘Aren’t you excited, Angel?  City of dreaming spires and golden opportunities.  Think of the romance, the legend!’

Angel closed her eyes.  ‘Piss off, Ant,’ she said.

‘No swearing,’ said Dime, overhearing.  ‘Ant’s rule.’

‘Dime’s right,’ said Ant.  ‘What do you say, Angel?’

‘Sorry, Ant,’ she said, dutifully, but still kept her face turned away from him.  ‘I meant to say, it’s lovely.  Really, Ant, I do think it’s lovely.  It’s just that it’s not the place I want to be at the moment.’  Ant let the strands of her hair fall and stepped away from her.