I remember I remember rediscovering Oxford. I was back in Oxford twelve years after being a Ruskin student. Back in Belfast I had experienced a bit of nostalgia for the place, Inspector Morse and Brideshead Revisited were on television, (in black and white, I couldn’t afford a colour licence). When I got back it didn’t seem as if much had altered, but then very little can be changed in that historic city centre. (That’s just as well, because every new building erected since 1945 has been a carbuncle, the worst example is the emetic Said Business School, an insipid building capped by a pretentious ziggurat. It has obliterated a wonderful wooden structure that used to the old railway station, with interesting architectural details. It was now a used tyre depot and only something as ridiculously quirky could add to the Lewis Carroll lunacy of the place). Back then I had been in Oxford for only six terms of ten weeks each and I went home to Kirkcaldy in between. Now it was my home and I had mixed feelings, I didn’t foresee that I would live there for the next twenty years. I began by re-exploring Headington, I was pleased that the cinema in New High Street was still there, the one in which we spent that glorious afternoon in 1974 watching “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie”. It now had Can-Can dancer’s legs made in fibre glass above the entrance and it was called the “Moulin Rouge”. I glanced round at the street and turned back to the cinema. Then it slowly dawned on me that I had just seen an enormous shark plunging through the roof of a house on the other side of the street. I turned back and it was still there. When I noticed that the house opposite was called “Shark View” I finally grasped it was not an optical illusion. That was how Oxford unfolded itself to me over the next few years, in a series of surprises. I really only became reconciled after the second Easter vacation. I had been visiting my sister in Aberdeenshire and thought it would be nice and leisurely to travel back by coach. The journey from Aberdeen to London was a nightmare, the coach was stiflingly hot and it was full so that I couldn’t move from my seat which was up against a barrier that stopped me from stretching my legs. By Stonehaven I didn’t think I could stand any more. However I developed a sort of numbness and made it to Victoria Coach station. The journey to Oxford was a misery until we crossed Magdalen Bridge. The High and George Street were full of sunshine and people in bright clothes, Aberdeenshire had been cold and grey, I accepted my fate, I decided to enjoy Oxford. The New Town of my native Edinburgh puts everything out in front and its large Georgian windows show what’s inside to anyone passing. Oxford is more like the Old Town with its wynds and pends, hiding treasures that have to be hunted out. Every time I was on a bus journey along the High I looked for details I hadn’t noticed before, in twenty years I seldom failed to find something. At exam times students in gowns and sub fusc would flock like magpies. Coming out of the Bodleian I would push through the crowds of tourists, I was a reader, I had been in the quiet rooms that they were not allowed to disturb. I used to have what I thought of as “Oxford Days”, the sun would be shining, it would be warm without being too humid, the streets would be full of young people. Walking through the University Parks, or beside the river, or on the bank of the canal, I would be full of joy to be living in such a glorious city. I would get my hair cut in Walter’s of the Turl, which is in a gent’s clothing shop. Now that I had a salary I started to augment the sparse wardrobe I had brought with me. The staff in Walter’s and Shepherd and Woodward were knowledgeable about clothes and politely helpful without being obsequious. In Ede and Ravenscroft there was a back shop which sold and hired academic and clerical garb. I was amazed to see racks of shovel hats, which I thought were now worn only in TV adaptations of Trollope’s Barchester Chronicles. I got an account at Blackwell’s, at that time they billed you once a term and then waited politely until you favoured them by paying up. There were lots of second hand book shops in which I gorged myself, at one time I was buying an average of a book a day. Other things took more adjustment. I had grown up thinking that the one infallible sign of class distinction was the letter “r”. If you pronounced it you were one of the people, elide it and you were upper class. That didn’t work in Oxford and I had to get used to being served in shops and pubs by people I would once have regarded as my social superiors. And the rules of courtesy were different, I attended a debate between Oxford CND and the NATO Association. Looking round I spotted some very posh women, I labelled them in my mind as NATO supporters. But they were CND, and in fluting tones they tore into the defenders of nuclear defence. But they always prefaced a critical comment by saying “I’m terribly sorry”. This was Oxford politeness, if you wanted to disagree with someone you expressed regret for it. I found that people would praise me elaborately, as a wonderful human being. In Scotland that is interpreted as hypocrisy and our complements are as minimal as possible. “Ye’re no bad” is the equivalent of Romeo gushing about Juliet. So I had to get used to the idea that in Oxford exaggerating your regard for someone is an expression of sincere regard. But there was also genuine snobbishness. I went into an accommodation agency looking for a flat and they treated me like an itinerant Scottish labourer. But when I gave my title as “doctor” their attitude changed completely. I realised that Oxford had become an outer suburb of London, the coaches between the cities ran what was practically a shuttle service and they were more convenient for more places than going by rail, a well as being cheaper. So commuters had pushed up the price of houses, so that it was on a par with the metropolis. It affected the life of Oxford, there were far fewer middle range restaurants and modestly priced shops than a place of its size would normally have. Another drawback was tourism, one day the High was full of groups of schoolchildren from all over Europe, their teachers were looking at the buildings, the kids were looking at each other. If one wanted to buy a postcard, all of them would go into the shop too, crowding it out. In summer the streets would be impassable because of gangs of goggling visitors. They seemed to think that everything around them was in CGI and the residents trying to get through were not real. They really did ask, “where is the university please?” On one Christmas Day I was walking down Beaumont Street, as I passed the Randolph Hotel a woman with miserable looking little girl stepped out, she asked me where “the Backs” were. “The Backs?”, I said. “Yes, I‘ve heard they are very beautiful.” My heart wept for the little girl, she wanted something interesting to happen and this was the one day on which everything in Oxford was closed. I’m sorry to tell you”, I said, “the Backs are in Cambridge.” I sent them to Little Clarendon Street, where I knew there would be lighted shop windows to look at. Finding accommodation was difficult. I went into an estate agent at Headington to enquire about buying a modest flat. When I told them my salary they nearly laughed in my face. House prices had trebled in three years and I had no hope, I would have to rent. Eventually I found a flat in James Street it was about half-way between the Cowley and Iffley Roads. There were lots of shops at both ends and the Cowley Road was a lively, multi-ethnic place which I liked. It cost more than ten times the rent of my Belfast flat, but council rates were included. The poll tax was imminent when the rates would be abolished, I asked if I would get a reduction in my rent. I was told, “no” the landlord intended to confiscate that money. Before it happened I became Resident Tutor at Walton Street and was not liable for the Poll Tax. I was disappointed because I had intended to refuse to pay. I had seen myself walking up to the Magistrates Court, surrounded by my students, wearing my kilt, with the script of my speech from the dock in my pocket. My moment of defiance had been denied to me, just another example of Tory injustice. This is a poem I wrote about living in Oxford: DISTANCE Oxford, May, afternoon … Spring has danced across the swaying trees and honey coloured walls, Alive with flowers and insects. Limbs are given gladly to the sun, Punts cluster like locusts under Folly Bridge. Buchan, April, morning … The sun rises, misted as an old man’s eyes; Fields lie like a frozen sea, birds wheel on the north wind. Spring trudges out, reluctant, to its darg, Like a weary ploughman on a winter’s dawn. Oxford, August, evening … The Croft at Headington is drowned in haze; it’s long wall gives back the heat of day. Blackbirds sing in rich cascades, round and sweet as grapes, Cottages doze. It is the delicious essence of England. Oxford, May, afternoon … I drink the sun, it does not warm my heart; I watch and always stand apart. My thoughts fly north with beating wings, like geese in a Buchan sky, To where the fields are waking, To the Spring. Bob Purdie Notes: 1. Buchan lies north of the River Ythan in Aberdeenshire, it includes the fishing towns of Peterhead and Fraserburgh and the farming country at their backs. It is stark and beautiful and its traditional language and culture have been strong enough to withstand the development of the oil industry. My sister lives there and I love it very much. 2. “Darg” is a Scots word meaning a specific task of work.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Mar 2014 20:56:33 +0000