Anonymous Sources by Mary Louise Kelly Read Free Book Online Page B

herself. It was a point of pride among bedders to know precisely what was going on behind the scenes. But after a few seconds, she pursed her lips tight and shook her head.
    â€œWell, thank you anyway.” I sighed. “You couldn’t possibly point me toward a cup of tea on the way out? I’m just off the plane and parchedfor a good cup. They don’t know how to make tea properly in America, you know.”
    She seemed to relax slightly. A young lady in need of tea was something she could handle. And quite right that Americans didn’t brew it correctly. “They’ll have tea in the dining hall. Should be opening for mealtime shortly.”
    â€œCould you show me which way that is? I’m a bit turned around.”
    She nodded curtly. Led me out of the room, pulled the door closed, and locked it behind her. We climbed down the stairs and out into the courtyard.
    She waited until we were outside before she spoke again. “That’s the Harvard room.” She tilted her head up toward a pair of windows on the second floor.
    I followed her gaze. “And he just moved out earlier this week?”
    â€œYes. Left his room in a right state. Always so many people in and out.”
    I waited for more, but she was silent.
    â€œHe had a girlfriend here. Was she—does she live here in college?”
    â€œPetronella.” The woman nodded again. More silence.
    â€œPetronella?” Where did the English come up with these names? “Would you know if she’s still around? I mean, I suppose she’ll be flying over to the States. For the funeral.”
    Silence.
    We kept walking.
    â€œI’d love to speak to her. If she wants to, of course. I’m sure she’s heartbroken. This must have been awful for her.”
    Silence.
    We walked on.
    â€œA right tart, that one,” the bedder suddenly spat. “None of my business, mind you. But I wouldn’t think she’s exactly dying of heartbreak.”
    I raised my eyebrows. Waited.
    â€œLives over there, in North Court.” She pointed. “And the dining hall’s just there. They’ll fix you up with some tea.”
    â€œThank you.” I hadn’t gotten this woman’s name. But the moment seemed to have passed. “Thanks very much.”
    â€œPetronella Black,” she was muttering as she turned around. “A right piece of work, that one.”

    
11
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    T he Emmanuel dining hall was painted robin’s-egg blue.
    Breakfast smells of fried tomatoes and bacon were still wafting from the kitchens. I was half-tempted to ask for some. There is nothing better for a hangover than a proper British cooked breakfast. Trust me. I would know.
    But I was not hungover today. Just jet-lagged. And I was actually quite enjoying myself. It was a sparkling morning. Normally at this time I’d be stuck listening to an endless faculty debate or plowing through the fine print of some graduate-school budget.
    Truth be told, I was growing a bit weary of the education beat.Not weary enough to move on. Not yet. But the day was coming when I would be ready to jump to a bigger pond. Washington, or back home to New York, or perhaps overseas. That is, if any foreign bureaus were left. Not a given considering the current state of the newspaper business.
    The first time I set foot in a newsroom, I was twenty-one. It had dawned on me, belatedly, that college graduation was looming and I had no inkling what to do next. Inertia led me to contemplate just sticking around. Doing my PhD at Columbia. And then, I don’t know—teach or write books or whatever people with PhDs in English did with their lives. Thankfully, my father intervened. Perhaps it was horror at the prospect of footing the bill for yet more years of Ivy League tuition. He ordered me to at least go through the motions of applying for a job.
    So one afternoon I found myself interviewing in the newsroom of the Wall