years they lived a carefree life, reading a bit, and writing a weekly essay to read aloud to their tutor. No-one seemed to mind if they didn’t work; indeed many of the richer and more aristocratic students didn’t bother to take a degree at all. They had been sent to Oxford or Cambridge with plenty of money to get to know the right people so they could take their destined place in governing the country and the Empire.

But for Peter, finals now loomed. It came to him as a nasty shock that he had to sit one whole three-hour paper in Middle English, of which hardly any written examples remained, and that he hadn’t even bought the large and expensive text book on which he was to be examined.

Now the time had come to go to the book shop and have the neglected tome put on his bill. So we did just that and took it on the river in a college punt – punted down the river until we came to a secluded spot under a willow tree – and both settled down to read.

After a couple of hours Peter shut the book. “I have left it too late,” he exclaimed. “There is no way I can master this in the fortnight before the exam!”

So we took it back and exchanged it for a copy of M.R.James’ Collected Ghost Stories, which he read to me on the river, and which became our favourite companion for the next fifty years.

In those days I didn’t talk much, which left a lot of time for thought – and I began to think of the future. As far as I knew, Peter would be leaving Oxford in June and I would probably never see him again. I surprised him by opening the subject of our future. Was he still in love with Peggy? If so, it was hardly fair on me to continue our relationship. Several other students were interested in me and if our loving togetherness was to stop and he was going back to Peggy that summer, I should perhaps know.

So he rang Peggy and demanded that she should finally make up her mind between him and Arthur, explaining about me and how unfair it was to keep me dangling.

“Don’t leave me, Peter. I love you! I am coming straight to Oxford!” she cried. So, on Friday she arrived. Oxford students were supposed to go away from the university for the weekend before their final exams started, to rest. We all three went out to tea.

Peggy was tall, confident, and very impressive. Her wonderful red hair was piled high on her head and made her look even taller. Four years older than me, with a private income of £7 a week, equivalent to £200 in 1998, as well as a job, she was elegantly dressed and assumed