Sylvie and Jak live on Green Leys Road at the edge of town, literally. Number 28 is a small box-shaped house with big windows in a line of small box-shaped houses looking across the road to a ditch and row of sycamores, behind which are fields.
Two telephone wires, one to their house, disconnected, and one to the Mountjoys next door, run above a magnolia tree in the garden.
“Have a good day at college,” shouts Sylvie up at Jak’s bedroom window, and walks hurriedly down the short path, through their creaky metal gate and a few yards down the pavement to her car.
Jak lies back and stares at the ceiling.
‘Right, let’s go again. Okay, so Jak, you left Moonies, Maddy Birch got you a taxi. Did she? Yeah, think so. And you got into it. And then… who knows.
‘That car wasn’t a taxi. Those men weren’t taxi drivers. And you were in Marston? With needle marks in your arms? Oh fucking hell, Jak.
‘Did you really drink that much. And what? Maybe your drink was spiked? But not by those men, coz that was later… by someone in the Moonies, no surely not. By Maddy Birch? No, no, no. Surely not?
‘Tabs seemed pretty sus about Dr Birch but she’s probably worrying about nothing. Being a bit paranoid. Maybe not say anything about the weird stuff that’ll just make her worry more.
‘Sometimes, Jak, you gotta get things straight yourself before you go tell your story to others.’
—
Sylvie goes through her week day morning routine. Work bag on the back seat, handbag on the passenger seat, check hair and face in the mirror, sunglasses on, onboard assistant on – “time to get up, Charlie boy” – and engine… click… on.
“Okay Charles, give us a song, a proper cloudbuster, metaphorically obvs. From when music was good. Then when I say, read out my socials summary – no ads, no media, just friend messages.”
‘Yes, your ladyship.’
‘I know you don’t get a chance to take a break this often; I know your life is speeding and it isn’t stopping…’
“Nice one Chaz, I like that. Turn it up.”
Sylvie taps her hand on the steering wheel in time to the music. At the end of Green Leys Road, she turns left towards central Cowley, under a railway bridge and past four grey-haired women dragging shopping trolleys along the pavement.
“The morning bread’s been delivered at Aldi I see,” mutters Sylvie under her breath, “get it while it’s still warm. Oh God, that’ll be me before I know it.”
She carries on past the bus garage and down the side of the car factory, its stark grey walls casting a cool shadow over the road. At a large roundabout, below the ring road flyover, the lights turn red just as she reaches the front of a slow queue of traffic. She puts her foot down and accelerates into the middle lane.
‘At the roundabout, go straight ahead, following Cowley Business Park, Temple Cowley, Cowley Road shops and Oxford city centre, which has restricted pedestrian access only.’
Sylvie’s car emerges from beneath the concrete flyover back into bright, warm sunshine. The road is lined by rectangular office buildings and neat flower beds. Various turns lead to staff car parks. She drives straight on.
‘Sweat, sweat, sweat; lose yourself to dance…’
“Okay Charles, turn it down a bit for now and give me my social summary, anything from Ruthy or Polly?”
‘Just the one convo, your ladyship. Started last night at 21.34. Ruthy Babes says, ‘anyone about for lunch, Suns?’ excited face, ‘Or Thurs if Sylvs can get time off?’ Ruth seems excited about meeting you and others for lunch.
‘Polly Maguire replies, tagging you in, ‘really struggling for Sunday. Could Thursday. @Sylvs what do you think?’ Polly also wants to meet for lunch but cannot go on Sunday. Are you able to meet on Thursday?
‘Ruthy Babes then says, ‘Ok lets Thurs. If Sylvs can make then great,’ crossed fingers, ‘(as always!). 1ish?’ Ruth hopes you can make it at 13.00 on Thursday.
‘Polly Maguire then suggests, ‘later would suit better, 2?’
‘Ruthy Babes then confirms 14.00 on Thursday for lunch at the Gardenhouse Cafe on Iffley Road. That is a 3.6 mile drive from your house and should take approximately 10 minutes at that datetime.’
The song ends. Sylvie drives down a straight but narrow road, past terraced houses, a garage, a locksmith and a Chinese takeaway. Once or twice she has to stop at pedestrian crossings but there is no real hold up, traffic is slight.
“Thanks Charles. Right, you can shut up for a bit and play another song. We’re going to be driving down the mad bit of Cowley Road, so… soothing and mellow, keep me from running over wanker cyclists and randos walking out in front of me. Tempting though it may be… yeah, something to keep me calm please.”
A half-empty red bus slows right down to let another, even emptier, red bus past. Sylvie taps her steering wheel impatiently.
Cowley Road is quiet. People with work visas are already through Magdalen Gate, or are waiting to go through. A few cars nip about, trying to find somewhere to pull in at the side of the road. But the shops are still shut, apart from the supermarkets that never shut.
Sylvie gazes wistfully at an Indian cornershop with a bright orange door, ‘ah, samosas. Are they making them right now? Swear can I smell them. So tasty!’
An unsteady man, baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, staggers across the road in front of her car.
“Idiot!”
‘Oh god, is that one of Paul’s stupid friends? Drunk by nine in the morning and heading for the churchyard to sleep it off.’
“One day soon, you fool, you’ll end up in that churchyard for good.”
At the bottom of Cowley Road is a roundabout, The Plain, with a handful of small trees in the centre. Sylvie drives round, past the turning for Iffley Road, a small sidestreet called Cowley Close, and a cluster of bored security guards at Magdalen Gate, which is in fact two gates; one with an orderly queue of workers arcing round the pavement; set into an eight foot barbed-wire topped fence.
A row of signs, forming a barrier, declare, ‘No entry to Magdalen Bridge for any vehicle. Pedestrian access with valid entry visa only.’
Sylvie turns off the Plain at the final exit, St Clements and takes a left down a lane, divided narrowly in two by a plastic railing. There is a short queue. She waits until eventually winding down her window for the barrier entry machine to scan her retina.
‘Welcome to the Greyhound Car Park. Proceed. Allocated parking for… Malling House Props employees… is on Level 3.’
—
Oxford was an Anglo-Saxon burgh, with defensive walls to protect against Viking attacks and a grid-like street plan masterminded by Æthelflæd, ‘Lady of the Mercians’ and daughter of Alfred the Great.
Cowley also predates the Norman Conquest. Originally known as Cufa’s Lea, it features in Domesday as Covelie. Who Cufa was is lost to history although his ‘lea’ is commemorated after a fashion by the names given to modern residential areas of Cowley: Blackbird Leys and Greater Leys.
At the start of the twentieth century, Oxford was still a small medieval town dominated by its university, nestled in the valley of two rivers – the Cherwell and the Thames. And Cowley, two and a half miles south-east of the river Cherwell where it is crossed by Magdalen Bridge, was still just a scatter of villages: Church Cowley, Temple Cowley and Middle Cowley.
Industrialisation hadn’t completely bypassed Oxford, Lucy’s Ironworks had been operating for most of the nineteenth century by the canal in Jericho, just to the north of the city centre – and would continue to do so until the early 2000s. But the university was the largest employer.
The invention of the car and the entrepreneurialism of William Morris changed everything. His Cowley factory expanded rapidly in the years between the world wars. And associated industries, such as the largely American owned Pressed Steel, soon sprung up alongside the Morris plant.
Old Oxford remained a small town, while its eastern suburbs, especially Cowley, grew and grew as migrant workers from unemployment-hit regions, such as South Wales, flocked – by train, bike and on foot – to the area.
Cowley was officially absorbed into Oxford in 1928. But the scatter of villages turned booming industrial suburb was larger than its river-bound parent town.
—
It is a warm summer morning and the walk to the phone shop in Blackbird Leys is mostly pleasant, apart from the annoying pain in Jak’s ankle. But even that is not as bad as it was yesterday or as bad as she thought it would be.
She cuts through a small park, with swings and a climbing frame, across the Littlemore Brook, which is lined by reed beds with birds busily finding food for their chicks, and past the community college with the ever changing, ever colourful displays of street art on its wall. A red kite soars overhead.
The sun gleams on the white cladding of the tower blocks and balcony flowers bathe in its light, giving off gentle scents. Even an occasional bee buzzes and, appropriately enough, a blackbird burbles into song. Jak draws sustenance from the warmth of the day.
New phone bought, thanks to a cash loan from her mum, Jak sits on a low wall by a bus stop trying to remember passwords to log into her social channels, and phone numbers for people she knows are never on socials.
—
Sylvie keeps half an eye out for managers but none of them seem to be in today. She scrolls through her socials. Again.
‘Where was it Ruthy wanted to go? Garden something?’
She Googles ‘garden cafe’ and taps the ‘near me’ button.
‘The Gardenhouse Café, Iffley Road, Oxford
‘Enjoy the finest Mediterranean inspired lunches and light bites in our sun-drenched sunken garden at the heart of Oxford’s Sunnyside (inside seating available, just in case it decides not to be sunny for once…)
‘A veritable hidden gem ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️’
‘Mmm, sounds nice. Could see if I can get time off, I suppose.’
—
Jak’s ankle is starting to hurt a bit more now. She limps through the lobby of London Road Business School and sits in a soft, faux-leather chair for a few minutes before struggling round big wooden tables with in-built charging points and reading lights – students tapping at their phones and laptops, queuing for coffee, chatting – and hobbling up the stairs.
There are seven others, making small talk, outside the tutorial room. A laminated sign by the door sternly warns of the need to respect one another and the grave consequences of not doing so.
“Sorry I’m late,” breezes Maddy Birch, unlocking the door, “had a bit of a morning. Had to take Mr Mandy to the vet, he’s not very well again.”
“Sorry to hear that Dr Birch,” consoles a young man in a denim shirt with rolled up sleeves, “are you okay to teach?”
“Yes Jonty, thank you, I’m okay. So let’s get to it shall we.”
Maddy leads a group discussion on how global businesses can, if they so choose, adapt to local customs. Jak takes notes but doesn’t otherwise participate. She stares out of the window. Jonty and Maddy do most of the talking.
Afterwards, Jak waits, leaning against the wall, in the corridor for Dr Birch.
“Jak!” Maddy is surprised to see her, “do you have questions about today’s discussion? You didn’t seem very engaged with the subject.”
“No, no I don’t. About Saturday night?”
“Oh,” Maddy brightens up, “did you catch up with your friend?”
“No, not in the end. Wasn’t feeling very well. Did you… I mean when you left the Moonshine, was there anyone around?”
“Um, not exactly. I saw you off in a taxi and then went back inside. Then I got a call back from the taxi firm number. It was a bit hard to hear inside the pub but this guy seemed to be wanting to know where you were, which was a bit odd. So I told them you’d already been picked up and the guy got cross so I hung up. Were you expecting someone to be there?”
“No, not really. I just thought there might’ve been,” Jak feels her chest tighten as she thinks about what might have happened.
‘Only Dr Birch knew where you was. Did she spike the drinks? Follow you? Hire some kidnappers to tie you up for sex games? She does seem kinda into you…
‘Oh God, Jak that’s crazy. Get a grip for fuck’s sake. Just stop it! Probably just random. Wrong place, wrong time. But… maybe try to get to know her a little bit, see if there’s anything else she knows.’
Maddy half-turns to go, “is that all?”
Jak forces herself to take a calming breath and continue the conversation, “did you have a nice rest of weekend?”
“Oh me? Yes, yes. Quiet you know, typical Sunday, nothing exciting, just me and a poorly cat,” Maddy smiles wanly, “so anyway, we have another discussion group on Friday, I’ll see you there. Unless you want to, I don’t know, have a coffee or something?”
“Um, not right now thanks,” says Jak quickly, “but there was something else I wanted to ask.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“You know your PhD…”
Maddy grins, “all too well, spent half my life on that bloody thing!”
“Where was it from?”
“Warwick. But I was working here some of the time as well. Managed to get access to the Bodleian, part of a deal between Warwick and Oxford.”
“The Bodleian? Like, in town?”
“Yes Jak,” Maddy laughs, “exactly like in town. They gave me an Academic Visa when the gates went up. I was one of the chosen few. Lucky me.”
‘Wow,’ Jak thinks quickly to herself, ‘so she knows Oxford Uni people, maybe she works for them, like getting girls for them… Jak for fuck’s sake, stop it again’.
“Can we meet up before the next tutorial?”
“Sure,” Maddy sounds keen, “how about tomorrow? A coffee would be nice. Foyer Cafe at, um, let me see, meeting, lecture, personal study time – I can use some of that – so say ten thirty?”
“Yeah.”
—
From: [email protected]
Subject: Leading the way in a volatile market
Dear colleague
Thank you for the hard work and commitment you show every day. I value your contribution to Malling House Props’ on-going achievements.
I am writing to you today to share my thoughts on how Malling House Props can take an innovation-first position in the ever changing property market, astutely navigate the current wider economic environment and set an ambitious course for future success. And how you can play an active and valued role in that transition.
The effects of the Oxford implementation of the Local Authority Investment Act (2029) continue to make themselves felt in depressing the Outer Oxford Border Zone market. As you may know property sales, mean average prices and property revenue streams in our Outers investments and management contracts have shown a decline year-on-year over each of the last three quarters, following the bounceback in 32-33 Q1. Coupled with this is clear evidence of long-term degrowth in property demand within the wider Oxfordshire area. These are issues which require prompt and decisive mitigation.
Therefore we, the Executive Board of Malling House Props, are instigating a Human Resource Rationalising and Streamlining Project. Phase 1 of this essential project will see administrative and business retention colleagues reduce their work hours by 40% and customer acquisition staff reduce their commission rate by 15%. These necessary changes have gone live with immediate effect.
I can assure you these were not easy decisions to make. But as a Team GB rower with genuine Olympic experience, I know more than most that nothing important in life is ever easy. And of course I realise these necessary changes may raise questions that you would like to see addressed. Please contact [email protected] with any questions you may have on how these changes specifically affect your work pattern and office and/or duty schedule.
I also look forward to you joining me in a Zoom conference at 3.00pm today to discuss further initiatives we can all take to continue to boost Malling House Props’ pre-eminent brand and market position, and really ramp up the momentum for future growth, innovation and prosperity.
Onward to the future!
Alex ‘Oarsaway’ Malling
CEO Malling House Props
Doing things the Props way!
—
Carly Marika Griffiths: Glad you got a new phone Jax. Just checking in how you doing?
Jak Churchwell: Ok
Carly Marika Griffiths: Wanna meet?
Jak Churchwell: Yes but promissed mum would stayin
Jak Churchwell: Shes stressed msgng me all afto
Carly Marika Griffiths: Want me to come round?
Jak Churchwell: Dont think she would like
Carly Marika Griffiths: ?
Jak Churchwell: Mum i mean think she wants nite in with me
Jak Churchwell: Just for tonite Tabs
Carly Marika Griffiths: Ok see you soon
Jak Churchwell: Tabs thanx for taking care of me yday hope workshop went well
Carly Marika Griffiths: x
—
The door of 28 Green Leys Road pushes open, the fixed draught excluder brushing the wood-style laminate hall floor.
“So I’ve had your father on at me middle of the night texting from some random number asking for money and then work was a nightmare going down to three days but even more to do than before and then there’s the water bill I paid last month but they say I didn’t and now they’re going to cut us off unless I agree to their payment plan.
“Did you see those jobs on the Magdalen Arch? They pay well, babe, and they say they’re prioritising Oxford workers too. There’s you with your construction work experience… just saying… deadline is Friday morning but they’ll close applications early if they get enough good ones.
“Anyway and then the Co-op was all out of butter, I mean butter, really? What am I going to have on my toast in the morning before going into the office even though Tuesday is no longer a working day because I’ve already got meetings arranged and Saz and Drew both work Tuesdays but not any other day together, how is that my problem?
“How is any of this my problem, Jak, when it’s other people who caused it all? And then I get Monday, Wednesday and Friday as my days. Not even consecutive days off or long weekends.”
Rant over, Sylvie closes the front door and hangs up her jacket and bag. The world of work, and disappointing supermarkets, decisively shut out.
“C’mere babe,” Sylvie gives Jak a hug and ruffles her hair, “you’ve had a bad time of it, hurt your ankle, and here I am moaning about my day.”
“I’m okay mum, it’s not too bad,” says Jak softly, “sounds like you’ve had a bad one. Can I do tea tonight?”
“That would be lovely, babe. Shepherd’s pie? We’ll make it together.”
Jak sits down to peel the potatoes while Sylvie stands at the work surface and chops onions for the gravy, her own special gravy recipe with Marmite and a glass of cheap cider as well as the stock cube.
“And the secret ingredient is…” announces Sylvie as she stirs in the boiling water.
“My mate Marmite!” they both shout out in gleeful unison.
“Remember when you told me that if I forgot to put in a spoon of marmite then Vladimir Putin would find out about our shepherd’s pie and poison it?” asks Jak.
“Ha ha, yes,” replies Sylvie, “I did make up some rubbish!”
“And I believed you! I thought a secret ingredient meant the whole thing would be a secret. Like in a spy film.”
“Only Sylvie and Jak Churchwell stand between the evil Russians and the top national security shepherd’s pie.”
“Just think what Putin would do with your onion gravy, mum. The whole country would be in danger!”
“To be honest babe, it was mostly just to stop you eating the marmite straight from the jar…”
“I never did!”
“You did!”
“How old was I then?”
“Oh, eight or nine, something like that. Before you went to big school.”
“Sounds about right.”
“It was lovely you helping with the tea, it always was babe,” Sylvie pauses and grins, “even if you did eat half the ingredients!”
Sylvie keeps meaning to write down her shepherd’s pie recipe so Jak can continue to make it by herself, or maybe – who knows – with a daughter of her own, when the time comes for that.
She thinks of the words she would write as she gently fries the onions on a low-to-medium heat. And as the onions soften, Sylvie fetches out a bag of plain flour from the cupboard and the pack of mince from the fridge. She stirs the onions, occasionally, and puts the kettle on to make the stock.
Sylvie stirs, continuously, a tablespoonful of flour into the onions until all the oil is soaked up. She continues to stir the onions and flour mix with one hand while pouring the boiling water into a large jug. She adds a stock cube, the cider and a smallish teaspoon of marmite to the jug of water, and stirs strongly, pressing the stock cube against the side to squish it up.
For about thirty seconds, Sylvie is stirring two things at once. Then she adds the stock to the saucepan, stirs some more, and heats a second hob to fry the mince.
On a medium heat, with only a little oil, she quickly breaks up the clump of mince in the pan with a heavy spoon, and then turns it over and over to brown evenly. Once there is no pink left in the mince, she tips it into the gravy and stirs.
Sylvie continues to stir the gravy but, instead of adding half a tube of tomato puree, looks round at Jak, “so, my reduced hours mean we need to have a think about money. What we’re spending, maybe also if there’s a way to bring more money into the house…”
“You think I need to get a part-time job?”
“Yeah babe, sorry but I think you do. Or even…”
“What?”
“Well, I’m sure I’ve heard of students leaving their course and then rejoining it later. Deferring? Is that what it’s called? Anyway, if you could do that, you could get a job on the Magdalen Arch. Pays well, supposedly, and it would only be for a bit, until it’s built. And then you can go back to college.”
Jak feels her heart sink, “I dunno mum. It’ll be really hard work, physically I mean, and they probably won’t take me on…”
“But, babe. You’ve got experience from the Kassam Renewal Project…”
Jak laughs, “that was more demolition than construction. Have you seen it now? Just a wasteland…”
“Well, it was a bit of both. Wasn’t it? It’s still experience. And they’re desperate for local workers on the Arch.”
“Carly calls it the Wall. She’s dead against it, campaigning and everything…”
“That’s all very well, babe. But you’re not going to earn a wage by waving silly placards and shouting, are you? Just hot air merchants, the lot of them, if you ask me…”
“I didn’t,” mumbles Jak.
“No, well, we do need the money babe,” Sylvie sighs and softens her voice, “and I’ll try to get extra hours. But it’s hard. You know that, you must, a business student of all things, times are hard right now, babe.”
Jak stares at the floor, “ok mum. I’ll have a look. Put in an application. Prob won’t get it though.”
“Thanks babe,” Sylvie briefly strokes her daughter’s arm before standing straight to her full height, “Atten-tion! Oven temperature: CHECK! Gravy: CHECK! Situation report on the mash, Special Agent Churchwell?”
“CHECK!” shouts Jak, standing to attention, despite her sore ankle, and saluting. She and her mum hug and laugh until their faces are wet with tears.
Sylvie and Jak live on Green Leys Road at the edge of town, literally. Number 28 is a small box-shaped house with big windows in a line of small box-shaped houses looking across the road to a ditch and row of sycamores, behind which are fields.
Two telephone wires, one to their house, disconnected, and one to the Mountjoys next door, run above a magnolia tree in the garden.
“Have a good day at college,” shouts Sylvie up at Jak’s bedroom window, and walks hurriedly down the short path, through their creaky metal gate and a few yards down the pavement to her car.
Jak lies back and stares at the ceiling.
‘Right, let’s go again. Okay, so Jak, you left Moonies, Maddy Birch got you a taxi. Did she? Yeah, think so. And you got into it. And then… who knows.
‘That car wasn’t a taxi. Those men weren’t taxi drivers. And you were in Marston? With needle marks in your arms? Oh fucking hell, Jak.
‘Did you really drink that much. And what? Maybe your drink was spiked? But not by those men, coz that was later… by someone in the Moonies, no surely not. By Maddy Birch? No, no, no. Surely not?
‘Tabs seemed pretty sus about Dr Birch but she’s probably worrying about nothing. Being a bit paranoid. Maybe not say anything about the weird stuff that’ll just make her worry more.
‘Sometimes, Jak, you gotta get things straight yourself before you go tell your story to others.’
—
Sylvie goes through her week day morning routine. Work bag on the back seat, handbag on the passenger seat, check hair and face in the mirror, sunglasses on, onboard assistant on – “time to get up, Charlie boy” – and engine… click… on.
“Okay Charles, give us a song, a proper cloudbuster, metaphorically obvs. From when music was good. Then when I say, read out my socials summary – no ads, no media, just friend messages.”
‘Yes, your ladyship.’
‘I know you don’t get a chance to take a break this often; I know your life is speeding and it isn’t stopping…’
“Nice one Chaz, I like that. Turn it up.”
Sylvie taps her hand on the steering wheel in time to the music. At the end of Green Leys Road, she turns left towards central Cowley, under a railway bridge and past four grey-haired women dragging shopping trolleys along the pavement.
“The morning bread’s been delivered at Aldi I see,” mutters Sylvie under her breath, “get it while it’s still warm. Oh God, that’ll be me before I know it.”
She carries on past the bus garage and down the side of the car factory, its stark grey walls casting a cool shadow over the road. At a large roundabout, below the ring road flyover, the lights turn red just as she reaches the front of a slow queue of traffic. She puts her foot down and accelerates into the middle lane.
‘At the roundabout, go straight ahead, following Cowley Business Park, Temple Cowley, Cowley Road shops and Oxford city centre, which has restricted pedestrian access only.’
Sylvie’s car emerges from beneath the concrete flyover back into bright, warm sunshine. The road is lined by rectangular office buildings and neat flower beds. Various turns lead to staff car parks. She drives straight on.
‘Sweat, sweat, sweat; lose yourself to dance…’
“Okay Charles, turn it down a bit for now and give me my social summary, anything from Ruthy or Polly?”
‘Just the one convo, your ladyship. Started last night at 21.34. Ruthy Babes says, ‘anyone about for lunch, Suns?’ excited face, ‘Or Thurs if Sylvs can get time off?’ Ruth seems excited about meeting you and others for lunch.
‘Polly Maguire replies, tagging you in, ‘really struggling for Sunday. Could Thursday. @Sylvs what do you think?’ Polly also wants to meet for lunch but cannot go on Sunday. Are you able to meet on Thursday?
‘Ruthy Babes then says, ‘Ok lets Thurs. If Sylvs can make then great,’ crossed fingers, ‘(as always!). 1ish?’ Ruth hopes you can make it at 13.00 on Thursday.
‘Polly Maguire then suggests, ‘later would suit better, 2?’
‘Ruthy Babes then confirms 14.00 on Thursday for lunch at the Gardenhouse Cafe on Iffley Road. That is a 3.6 mile drive from your house and should take approximately 10 minutes at that datetime.’
The song ends. Sylvie drives down a straight but narrow road, past terraced houses, a garage, a locksmith and a Chinese takeaway. Once or twice she has to stop at pedestrian crossings but there is no real hold up, traffic is slight.
“Thanks Charles. Right, you can shut up for a bit and play another song. We’re going to be driving down the mad bit of Cowley Road, so… soothing and mellow, keep me from running over wanker cyclists and randos walking out in front of me. Tempting though it may be… yeah, something to keep me calm please.”
A half-empty red bus slows right down to let another, even emptier, red bus past. Sylvie taps her steering wheel impatiently.
Cowley Road is quiet. People with work visas are already through Magdalen Gate, or are waiting to go through. A few cars nip about, trying to find somewhere to pull in at the side of the road. But the shops are still shut, apart from the supermarkets that never shut.
Sylvie gazes wistfully at an Indian cornershop with a bright orange door, ‘ah, samosas. Are they making them right now? Swear can I smell them. So tasty!’
An unsteady man, baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, staggers across the road in front of her car.
“Idiot!”
‘Oh god, is that one of Paul’s stupid friends? Drunk by nine in the morning and heading for the churchyard to sleep it off.’
“One day soon, you fool, you’ll end up in that churchyard for good.”
At the bottom of Cowley Road is a roundabout, The Plain, with a handful of small trees in the centre. Sylvie drives round, past the turning for Iffley Road, a small sidestreet called Cowley Close, and a cluster of bored security guards at Magdalen Gate, which is in fact two gates; one with an orderly queue of workers arcing round the pavement; set into an eight foot barbed-wire topped fence.
A row of signs, forming a barrier, declare, ‘No entry to Magdalen Bridge for any vehicle. Pedestrian access with valid entry visa only.’
Sylvie turns off the Plain at the final exit, St Clements and takes a left down a lane, divided narrowly in two by a plastic railing. There is a short queue. She waits until eventually winding down her window for the barrier entry machine to scan her retina.
‘Welcome to the Greyhound Car Park. Proceed. Allocated parking for… Malling House Props employees… is on Level 3.’
—
Oxford is a few hundred years older than its university. It had been an Anglo-Saxon burgh, with defensive walls and a grid-like street plan designed by Æthelflæd, ‘Lady of the Mercians’ – the Queen of Mercia in all but name.
Cowley also predates the university and features in Domesday as Cufa’s Lea. Who Cufa was is lost to history although his ‘lea’ is commemorated after a fashion by the names given to modern residential areas of Cowley: Blackbird Leys and Greater Leys.
But at the start of the twentieth century, Oxford was still a small medieval town with a medieval university, nestled in the valley of two rivers – the Cherwell and the Thames. And Cowley, two and a half miles south-east of the river Cherwell where it is crossed by Magdalen Bridge, was still just a scatter of villages: Church Cowley, Temple Cowley and Middle Cowley.
Industrialisation hadn’t completely bypassed Oxford, Lucy’s Ironworks had been operating for most of the nineteenth century by the canal in Jericho, just to the north of the city centre – and would continue to do so until the early 2000s. But the university was the largest employer.
The invention of the car and the entrepreneurialism of William Morris changed everything. His Cowley factory expanded rapidly in the years between the world wars. And associated industries, such as the largely American owned Pressed Steel, soon sprung up alongside the Morris plant.
Old Oxford remained a small town, while its eastern suburbs, especially Cowley, grew and grew as migrant workers from unemployment-hit regions, such as South Wales, flocked – by train, bike and on foot – to the area.
Cowley was officially absorbed into Oxford in 1928. But the scatter of villages turned booming industrial suburb was larger than its river-bound parent town.
—
It is a warm summer morning and the walk to the phone shop in Blackbird Leys is mostly pleasant, apart from the annoying pain in Jak’s ankle. But even that is not as bad as it was yesterday or as bad as she thought it would be.
She cuts through a small park, with swings and a climbing frame, across the Littlemore Brook, which is lined by reed beds with birds busily finding food for their chicks, and past the community college with the ever changing, ever colourful displays of street art on its wall. A red kite soars overhead.
The sun gleams on the white cladding of the tower blocks and balcony flowers bathe in its light, giving off gentle scents. Even an occasional bee buzzes and, appropriately enough, a blackbird burbles into song. Jak draws sustenance from the warmth of the day.
New phone bought, thanks to a cash loan from her mum, Jak sits on a low wall by a bus stop trying to remember passwords to log into her social channels, and phone numbers for people she knows are never on socials.
—
Sylvie keeps half an eye out for managers but none of them seem to be in today. She scrolls through her socials. Again.
‘Where was it Ruthy wanted to go? Garden something?’
She Googles ‘garden cafe’ and taps the ‘near me’ button.
‘The Gardenhouse Café, Iffley Road, Oxford
‘Enjoy the finest Mediterranean inspired lunches and light bites in our sun-drenched sunken garden at the heart of Oxford’s Sunnyside (inside seating available, just in case it decides not to be sunny for once…)
‘A veritable hidden gem ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️’
‘Mmm, sounds nice. Could see if I can get time off, I suppose.’
—
Jak’s ankle is starting to hurt a bit more now. She limps through the lobby of London Road Business School and sits in a soft, faux-leather chair for a few minutes before struggling round big wooden tables with in-built charging points and reading lights – students tapping at their phones and laptops, queuing for coffee, chatting – and hobbling up the stairs.
There are seven others, making small talk, outside the tutorial room. A laminated sign by the door sternly warns of the need to respect one another and the grave consequences of not doing so.
“Sorry I’m late,” breezes Maddy Birch, unlocking the door, “had a bit of a morning. Had to take Mr Mandy to the vet, he’s not very well again.”
“Sorry to hear that Dr Birch,” consoles a young man in a denim shirt with rolled up sleeves, “are you okay to teach?”
“Yes Jonty, thank you, I’m okay. So let’s get to it shall we.”
Maddy leads a group discussion on how global businesses can, if they so choose, adapt to local customs. Jak takes notes but doesn’t otherwise participate. She stares out of the window. Jonty and Maddy do most of the talking.
Afterwards, Jak waits, leaning against the wall, in the corridor for Dr Birch.
“Jak!” Maddy is surprised to see her, “do you have questions about today’s discussion? You didn’t seem very engaged with the subject.”
“No, no I don’t. About Saturday night?”
“Oh,” Maddy brightens up, “did you catch up with your friend?”
“No, not in the end. Wasn’t feeling very well. Did you… I mean when you left the Moonshine, was there anyone around?”
“Um, not exactly. I saw you off in a taxi and then went back inside. Then I got a call back from the taxi firm number. It was a bit hard to hear inside the pub but this guy seemed to be wanting to know where you were, which was a bit odd. So I told them you’d already been picked up and the guy got cross so I hung up. Were you expecting someone to be there?”
“No, not really. I just thought there might’ve been,” Jak feels her chest tighten as she thinks about what might have happened.
‘Only Dr Birch knew where you was. Did she spike the drinks? Follow you? Hire some kidnappers to tie you up for sex games? She does seem kinda into you…
‘Oh God, Jak that’s crazy. Get a grip for fuck’s sake. Just stop it! Probably just random. Wrong place, wrong time. But… maybe try to get to know her a little bit, see if there’s anything else she knows.’
Maddy half-turns to go, “is that all?”
Jak forces herself to take a calming breath and continue the conversation, “did you have a nice rest of weekend?”
“Oh me? Yes, yes. Quiet you know, typical Sunday, nothing exciting, just me and a poorly cat,” Maddy smiles wanly, “so anyway, we have another discussion group on Friday, I’ll see you there. Unless you want to, I don’t know, have a coffee or something?”
“Um, not right now thanks,” says Jak quickly, “but there was something else I wanted to ask.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“You know your PhD…”
Maddy grins, “all too well, spent half my life on that bloody thing!”
“Where was it from?”
“Warwick. But I was working here some of the time as well. Managed to get access to the Bodleian, part of a deal between Warwick and Oxford.”
“The Bodleian? Like, in town?”
“Yes Jak,” Maddy laughs, “exactly like in town. They gave me an Academic Visa when the gates went up. I was one of the chosen few. Lucky me.”
‘Wow,’ Jak thinks quickly to herself, ‘so she knows Oxford Uni people, maybe she works for them, like getting girls for them… Jak for fuck’s sake, stop it again’.
“Can we meet up before the next tutorial?”
“Sure,” Maddy sounds keen, “how about tomorrow? A coffee would be nice. Foyer Cafe at, um, let me see, meeting, lecture, personal study time – I can use some of that – so say ten thirty?”
“Yeah.”
—
From: [email protected]
Subject: Leading the way in a volatile market
Dear colleague
Thank you for the hard work and commitment you show every day. I value your contribution to Malling House Props’ on-going achievements.
I am writing to you today to share my thoughts on how Malling House Props can take an innovation-first position in the ever changing property market, astutely navigate the current wider economic environment and set an ambitious course for future success. And how you can play an active and valued role in that transition.
The effects of the Oxford implementation of the Local Authority Investment Act (2029) continue to make themselves felt in depressing the Outer Oxford Border Zone market. As you may know property sales, mean average prices and property revenue streams in our Outers investments and management contracts have shown a decline year-on-year over each of the last three quarters, following the bounceback in 32-33 Q1. Coupled with this is clear evidence of long-term degrowth in property demand within the wider Oxfordshire area. These are issues which require prompt and decisive mitigation.
Therefore we, the Executive Board of Malling House Props, are instigating a Human Resource Rationalising and Streamlining Project. Phase 1 of this essential project will see administrative and business retention colleagues reduce their work hours by 40% and customer acquisition staff reduce their commission rate by 15%. These necessary changes have gone live with immediate effect.
I can assure you these were not easy decisions to make. But as a Team GB rower with genuine Olympic experience, I know more than most that nothing important in life is ever easy. And of course I realise these necessary changes may raise questions that you would like to see addressed. Please contact [email protected] with any questions you may have on how these changes specifically affect your work pattern and office and/or duty schedule.
I also look forward to you joining me in a Zoom conference at 3.00pm today to discuss further initiatives we can all take to continue to boost Malling House Props’ pre-eminent brand and market position, and really ramp up the momentum for future growth, innovation and prosperity.
Onward to the future!
Alex ‘Oarsaway’ Malling
CEO Malling House Props
Doing things the Props way!
—
Carly Marika Griffiths: Glad you got a new phone Jax. Just checking in how you doing?
Jak Churchwell: Ok
Carly Marika Griffiths: Wanna meet?
Jak Churchwell: Yes but promissed mum would stayin
Jak Churchwell: Shes stressed msgng me all afto
Carly Marika Griffiths: Want me to come round?
Jak Churchwell: Dont think she would like
Carly Marika Griffiths: ?
Jak Churchwell: Mum i mean think she wants nite in with me
Jak Churchwell: Just for tonite Tabs
Carly Marika Griffiths: Ok see you soon
Jak Churchwell: Tabs thanx for taking care of me yday hope workshop went well
Carly Marika Griffiths: x
—
The door of 28 Green Leys Road pushes open, the fixed draught excluder brushing the wood-style laminate hall floor.
“So I’ve had your father on at me middle of the night texting from some random number asking for money and then work was a nightmare going down to three days but even more to do than before and then there’s the water bill I paid last month but they say I didn’t and now they’re going to cut us off unless I agree to their payment plan.
“Did you see those jobs on the Magdalen Arch? They pay well, babe, and they say they’re prioritising Oxford workers too. There’s you with your construction work experience… just saying… deadline is Friday morning but they’ll close applications early if they get enough good ones.
“Anyway and then the Co-op was all out of butter, I mean butter, really? What am I going to have on my toast in the morning before going into the office even though Tuesday is no longer a working day because I’ve already got meetings arranged and Saz and Drew both work Tuesdays but not any other day together, how is that my problem?
“How is any of this my problem, Jak, when it’s other people who caused it all? And then I get Monday, Wednesday and Friday as my days. Not even consecutive days off or long weekends.”
Rant over, Sylvie closes the front door and hangs up her jacket and bag. The world of work, and disappointing supermarkets, decisively shut out.
“C’mere babe,” Sylvie gives Jak a hug and ruffles her hair, “you’ve had a bad time of it, hurt your ankle, and here I am moaning about my day.”
“I’m okay mum, it’s not too bad,” says Jak softly, “sounds like you’ve had a bad one. Can I do tea tonight?”
“That would be lovely, babe. Shepherd’s pie? We’ll make it together.”
Jak sits down to peel the potatoes while Sylvie stands at the work surface and chops onions for the gravy, her own special gravy recipe with Marmite and a glass of cheap cider as well as the stock cube.
“And the secret ingredient is…” announces Sylvie as she stirs in the boiling water.
“My mate Marmite!” they both shout out in gleeful unison.
“Remember when you told me that if I forgot to put in a spoon of marmite then Vladimir Putin would find out about our shepherd’s pie and poison it?” asks Jak.
“Ha ha, yes,” replies Sylvie, “I did make up some rubbish!”
“And I believed you! I thought a secret ingredient meant the whole thing would be a secret. Like in a spy film.”
“Only Sylvie and Jak Churchwell stand between the evil Russians and the top national security shepherd’s pie.”
“Just think what Putin would do with your onion gravy, mum. The whole country would be in danger!”
“To be honest babe, it was mostly just to stop you eating the marmite straight from the jar…”
“I never did!”
“You did!”
“How old was I then?”
“Oh, eight or nine, something like that. Before you went to big school.”
“Sounds about right.”
“It was lovely you helping with the tea, it always was babe,” Sylvie pauses and grins, “even if you did eat half the ingredients!”
Sylvie keeps meaning to write down her shepherd’s pie recipe so Jak can continue to make it by herself, or maybe – who knows – with a daughter of her own, when the time comes for that.
She thinks of the words she would write as she gently fries the onions on a low-to-medium heat. And as the onions soften, Sylvie fetches out a bag of plain flour from the cupboard and the pack of mince from the fridge. She stirs the onions, occasionally, and puts the kettle on to make the stock.
Sylvie stirs, continuously, a tablespoonful of flour into the onions until all the oil is soaked up. She continues to stir the onions and flour mix with one hand while pouring the boiling water into a large jug. She adds a stock cube, the cider and a smallish teaspoon of marmite to the jug of water, and stirs strongly, pressing the stock cube against the side to squish it up.
For about thirty seconds, Sylvie is stirring two things at once. Then she adds the stock to the saucepan, stirs some more, and heats a second hob to fry the mince.
On a medium heat, with only a little oil, she quickly breaks up the clump of mince in the pan with a heavy spoon, and then turns it over and over to brown evenly. Once there is no pink left in the mince, she tips it into the gravy and stirs.
Sylvie continues to stir the gravy but, instead of adding half a tube of tomato puree, looks round at Jak, “so, my reduced hours mean we need to have a think about money. What we’re spending, maybe also if there’s a way to bring more money into the house…”
“You think I need to get a part-time job?”
“Yeah babe, sorry but I think you do. Or even…”
“What?”
“Well, I’m sure I’ve heard of students leaving their course and then rejoining it later. Deferring? Is that what it’s called? Anyway, if you could do that, you could get a job on the Magdalen Arch. Pays well, supposedly, and it would only be for a bit, until it’s built. And then you can go back to college.”
Jak feels her heart sink, “I dunno mum. It’ll be really hard work, physically I mean, and they probably won’t take me on…”
“But, babe. You’ve got experience from the Kassam Renewal Project…”
Jak laughs, “that was more demolition than construction. Have you seen it now? Just a wasteland…”
“Well, it was a bit of both. Wasn’t it? It’s still experience. And they’re desperate for local workers on the Arch.”
“Carly calls it the Wall. She’s dead against it, campaigning and everything…”
“That’s all very well, babe. But you’re not going to earn a wage by waving silly placards and shouting, are you? Just hot air merchants, the lot of them, if you ask me…”
“I didn’t,” mumbles Jak.
“No, well, we do need the money babe,” Sylvie sighs and softens her voice, “and I’ll try to get extra hours. But it’s hard. You know that, you must, a business student of all things, times are hard right now, babe.”
Jak stares at the floor, “ok mum. I’ll have a look. Put in an application. Prob won’t get it though.”
“Thanks babe,” Sylvie briefly strokes her daughter’s arm before standing straight to her full height, “Atten-tion! Oven temperature: CHECK! Gravy: CHECK! Situation report on the mash, Special Agent Churchwell?”
“CHECK!” shouts Jak, standing to attention, despite her sore ankle, and saluting. She and her mum hug and laugh until their faces are wet with tears.