Chapter Text
From the journal of Susan Pevensie, kept at the request of her mother, September 1940 – June 1949
14th September, 1940
The Professor's Estate
Age 12
Mother gave me this journal before we left. We are to write down everything, so we have something to look back on when this is all over.
It has been four days since we arrived. The Professor's estate is very large - more rooms than I have managed to count, and I tried twice. Lucy wants to explore all of them. I have told her we are guests and ought to behave accordingly. The Professor himself is kind, if rather strange. Mrs. Macready, his housekeeper, is considerably less welcoming, and I have been doing my best to keep us out of her way.
It is very quiet here. I keep waking up in the night, which I expect is just the country air. Edmund says the house is haunted. I told him not to be ridiculous.
Peter has been trying to make our days as normal as possible. Edmund is settling in. Lucy has been cheerful, which is a relief.
I hope Father is sleeping well tonight.
— S
27th October, 1940
The Professor's Estate
Age 12
Returned from Narnia:
25 Oct. 1940
I have started this entry three times.
I don't quite know how to account for the past weeks. Only that we are all of us a little older than we were - in ways that are difficult to explain and that I don't think would translate well to paper. The Professor has been kind. The house has been good for us, in ways I didn't expect.
Edmund is steadier than he has been in months. Lucy seems entirely herself, only more certain of it. Peter stands differently than he did when we arrived. I cannot place exactly when it happened.
I wonder what they see when they look at me.
I keep reaching for things that are no longer there. I don't mean that the way it sounds. I am perfectly fine.
I think I shall take up archery.
— Susan
14th June, 1941
The Professor's Estate
Age 13
Returned from Narnia:
12 June 1941
We made a friend in our time here, a boy named Caspian. He has since moved on, but he was very good company while it lasted.
The others took to him especially. Lucy cried when he left, though she would not thank me for writing that. Edmund has been very quiet since.
There has been rather a lot of moving on lately. Peter and I have been told it is time to grow up.
I suppose there are some things you put away when you get older. There is probably a very good reason for it. Not on all of us equally.
— Susan
12th August, 1942
New York, New York
Age 14
I'm not sure what I expected America to be. It wasn't this. I don't mind.
I had forgotten a city could look like this.
Lucy, I bought a lipstick. Victory Red. I haven't told Mother yet.
Edmund writes that they ran into Caspian again. Eustace was with them, apparently, which I'm sure was character-building for everyone involved.
Mother and Father mentioned, once we sailed, that the Professor had suggested I join Peter for his tutorials. "It was felt" that I would not benefit in the same way.
— Susan
11th October, 1946
St. Hilda's College, Oxford
Age 18
The first week is behind me and I am still standing.
Prof. Tolkien is remarkable.* I am keeping pace. I have spent more evenings in the library than out of it this week.
I have fallen in with a loose collection of girls from my corridor - Maggie, Di, and a Scottish girl called Fiona. My roommate Bridie - Bridget, properly - is from Cork. I think we shall get on. We have taken to spending Friday evenings at a pub on St Giles' Street that everyone calls 'the Bird'.† It is early days yet.
I have joined the literary circle, and - after rather more deliberation than the matter warranted - the archery club. The Captain complimented my form and asked how long I had been shooting. Several years, I told him. He put my name down for the team trials.
Peter is reading across the river at Magdalen. I find I no longer speak the same language as my siblings on some things. I am not sure when that changed exactly. I have not said so. I don't think I need to.
Prof. Kirke is a fellow there. He stopped me on the High Street this week to ask after Lucy and Edmund. He meets with them all still, and with Eustace — and some girl called Jill Pole, apparently. I have not been invited.
I will not ask to be.
I am looking forward to the rest of term.
— Susan
3rd June, 1949
St. Hilda's College, Oxford
Age 21
No time for this. Exams in an hour.
Mother rang this morning about the trip. Again. I have given everything they have ever asked of me. It is one night. I will pay for it when I arrive, and I will smile and apologise and make it right, the way I always do.
Eustace and Jill will be there, apparently. Prof. Kirke as well. The whole gallant crew. I am glad everyone has somewhere to be.
Bridie thinks I should tell them about the graduate programme while we are all together. I have had the words for months. I know what I want and I know it is the right decision, and I know that none of that will matter because it has always been easier to decide what I am than to ask. One more frivolous thing. One more Susan problem.
I love them. I do. I just need tonight.
The shaking reached her before the words did. Then Bridget's voice, low and frantic, saying her full name the way she only did when something had gone very wrong.
Susan… Susan Pevensie!
Susan made a grab for the pillow. Too slow.
What do you mean?
she grumbled, recoiling from the cruelty of the morning light.
The Principal is asking for you,
Bridget said, her Irish brogue thickening with every word, and there are coppers in her office.
Susan's eyes were still closed. Are you still drunk, Bridie.
It wasn't really a question.
Police!
Bridget's voice finally reached crescendo.
Silence followed - sudden, absolute.
Whatever remained of last night dissolved in an instant. Susan sat up fast. The room tilted. Her stomach made its feelings known, and she sat very still for a moment, hand pressed to her temple, taking inventory. No. She was fine. Probably fine.
She scrambled out of bed. I haven't done anything. You were with me the whole time. I didn't steal any of the ashtrays.
Her hands fumbled for her dressing gown, fabric twisting the wrong way as she shoved her arms through. Bridget hovered near the door, taut as a bowstring, watching her with an expression Susan's addled brain didn't quite catch.
I told her you would be down shortly,
Bridget said, her voice calculated now, carefully steadied. Her eyes met Susan's. But Susan -
a pause, let them speak first.
I promise I don't know what this is about,
Susan replied, tying her belt with unsteady fingers. There has to be a rational explanation.
She was already moving before she finished the sentence.
Old Hall's stone corridor was cold, the floor biting through her bare feet as she hurried along the familiar path. On any other morning, she would not have forgotten her slippers. On any other morning the thought would have stopped her. Today it didn't register.
By the time she reached the Principal's door her breath was uneven. Fragmented memories of the night before spun through her head without order - drinks, music, the Bird at closing time. Nothing that warranted police. Nothing that warranted any of this.
She lifted her hand. Hesitated for half a second. Knocked.
Come in, Pevensie.
Miss Mann's voice carried through the heavy oak door - controlled, formal, unmistakably itself.‡
Susan pushed the door open.
The office was still, almost unnaturally so. Two police sergeants stood by the fireplace, their presence immediately swallowing what little air there was in the room.
The older of the two turned slightly. Miss Susan Pevensie?
Yes.
Her throat tightened around the word. To what do I owe this visit?
Before either man could answer, Miss Mann stepped in. Her usual severity was gone, replaced by something quieter — careful, almost cautious.
-Susan,
she said gently, there has been a terrible accident…
* J. R. R. Tolkien (1892–1973), philologist and author of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, served as Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford during this period.
† "The Bird" was a common nickname for the Eagle & Child pub in Oxford, historically frequented by academics and literary groups including the Inklings.
‡ Julia de Lacy Mann (1891–1985), economic historian and Principal of St Hilda's College, Oxford (1928–1955).