The Eagle and Child, Oxford — April.

Thomas looked up as Richard plonked two pints of ale on the table, splashing froth on the chipped mahogany.

"There you go, breakfast of champions."

"It's barely gone eleven, Richard. I thought we came here for brunch."

"Yeah, we did, but I'm still in holiday mode, and right now" — Richard paused a moment to look at his watch — "it is precisely four forty-three on a Friday afternoon in sunny Calcutta. Clearly, it's beer o'clock."

Thomas selected two coasters from a wooden holder and placed the beers on them. "It's called Kolkata now." Finding the napkins gone, he grimaced and used the sleeve of his cardigan to mop up the liquid from the sticky table. "You flew in yesterday, how can you be so chirpy, man?"

"I know, I know, I woke up at three thirty this morning. I'm full of beans."

The crooked-toothed grin on Richard's face was infectious, and Thomas found himself smiling back at his red-headed friend. "Cheers," he said, clinking his glass against Richard's. He took a sip of the sour, hoppy drink, and wiped his hand across his face, blinking dry, red-rimmed eyes as he yawned.

One ginger brow lifted. "Been studying hard?"

Thomas grunted. "You could say so. Father dragged me into the office over the break — 'pre-pupillage' he called it, more like a tour of duty — and Beatrice has been in and out of London, expecting me to visit her when she's there. I've been scrambling to catch up."

"You're a lucky bugger — the girl, the job ..." Richard lounged into the upholstered material of the bench, one foot tucked under a thigh, his eyes unfocused and a whimsical smile on his face.

"Mmphm." Thomas took a longer swig. "I don't know if I'm ready for any of it. I'd rather live life the way you do."

"Don't suppose your dad will let you take some sabbaticals to do pro-bono work abroad? There's tons of demand for lawyers in developing countries and with your position in society —"

Thomas gave his friend a level stare and received a cringe in return.

"Ah, like that, is it?" Shrugging, Richard continued, "Only one thing to do, then."

"And what is that?"

"Take a gap year."

Thomas' mind raced. He couldn't, could he? Other people did — people without responsibilities. He'd only a few months left before he sat for the Bar, then a year-long pupillage at Watermain & Sons planned since the day he was born, and then ... Oh God, what then?

The door to the pub flew open, and the oxygen seemed to suck out of the room. His throat constricted. He tried to breathe, but couldn't.

"Earth to Thomas. Thomas!"

A light, but unexpected slap on the cheek brought Thomas back to reality. "Hey!"

"You're spacing out. What's going through your head?"

"I don't think I can take a gap year." Thomas rubbed his cheek. "And that hurt."

"Did not, and why the hell not? You're always bugging me to tell you about my latest trip, and you've got the money — you rich bastard. If I could do it, you can."

Thomas turned his glass between his hands. They were sitting in the legendary Rabbit Room, right where Tolkien and C.S. Lewis had planned great adventures for their characters. It filled steadily about them — mostly students and would-be authors with laptops, plus a group of American tourists speaking with a New York twang. A hiss rose from the coffee machine, followed by the bubble of warming milk. He needed coffee — and a cigarette. The door opened again, this time letting in a frigid gust of damp air. Perhaps later.

Thomas shuffled in his seat and raised his pint to his lips. "Sadly, I don't think I've got the bollocks." He drank deep, then said, "Tell me about India. That's why we're really here."

"Bloody brilliant! Though I tell you, it's a treat to use toilet paper again."

This caught Thomas' attention. He turned wide eyes on his friend, who was opening and closing his left hand thoughtfully. "You didn't, did you?"

"One bout of gastro over there with the sandpaper they pass off as toilet paper, and you'd do it too — it's not like you can access a bidet when you're out on a trek. The German who taught me it saved my arse — literally. Just a flick of the hands, a bar of soap in your pocket, and you're all set."

Thomas blanched, prompting Richard to gaze at him, forehead folded.

"You need to wing it, Thomas. Book your flights, invest in a good guide book and take it as it comes. That way, you can't be disappointed, and everything is exciting."

Richard spoke on, recounting the highlights of his seven weeks in India. Thomas listened with a forced smile, his heart beating between tightly squeezed ribs. He had wanted to spread his vocational year over two, like Richard, who spent almost every term break overseas. He might have argued harder, but he hadn't.

The toing and froing between the office in London and studies in Oxford had been exciting at first — a change in pace and scenery, a taste of adventure — but intercity trains soon became tiring. He wanted a train ride that didn't stop. One that took him as far away from England as he could get. Anywhere exotic would do.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back into his seat, imagining himself aboard a carriage, rocking side to side while he sped through a lush jungle, the hot air on his face and a turbaned waiter approaching with his saffron-scented meal.

"Sausage sandwich?" Thomas opened his eyes. "Hey mate, did you order a sausage sandwich or what?" asked a young, bleary-eyed Australian who smelled of stale Guinness.

"Er, yes. Thank you." Thomas took the plate from the waiter, cleared his throat and asked him, "When did you leave Australia?"

The young man rolled his eyes and walked off, muttering to himself and stooping to avoid a low beam decorated with fake ivy.

Richard sniggered with his burger poised at his lips.

"What?"

"You were swaying in your seat. And he's a New Zealander. Backpackers rule, number 144: If they sound American or Aussie, they're probably from Canada or New Zealand."

"So?"

"Would you ask a Welsh man where he was from in England?"

Thomas gulped. "I concede your point." He turned to look at the fire, crackling in the hearth beside them, and wondered when spring would come.

"Tuck that bit of advice away in your bag of tricks," Richard said, through a mouthful of food. "Another few pointers. Try out hostels — you'll meet down-to-earth people. And most important, one-way tickets are the best. An unwanted return date is as bad as a nagging girlfriend. You have five whole years to do your pupillage, and all your ducks lined up to do it whenever you want. I say choose a city, buy a ticket and go."

"Speaking of nagging girlfriends, if, hypothetically, I were to take your advice, what would I do about Beatrice?"

Richard scoffed. "That's what Skype is for. Lots of people leave their other halves back home. Ask her to meet you over there if you want. Or, if she's not up for it, take a breather." Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but Richard jumped in before he could say anything. "Come on, blondie, with your ravishing looks and baby blues, you could have the time of your life!"

While he chewed on his sandwich, dreams of snow-capped mountains and crumbling ruins flashed through Thomas' mind's eye. Richard had a point — the time was right. Beatrice seemed happy enough with their more-or-less-long-distance relationship and, as much as he would never approve, what could his father do? He muffled out the little voice deep inside that replied, He could disown you. This might be possible.

As he continued his daydream, a prick of excitement grew in Thomas' chest and lit the room around him. The rugs on the floor became a bright burgundy, the wood furniture polished to a shine, and the white-washed walls, white.

He had lunch with his parents in a few weeks. A perfect opportunity to broach the subject. The problem was, he had no idea how in the hell to say it.

Cold sweat trickled down his back, and he fought the urge to laugh. His father wouldn't like it — or Beatrice. Not one bit. But the indomitable Lord Watermain was the first obstacle and the one who made his stomach sink to the floor. So, he needed to focus on him before making any further plans. He could think about where to go later. First things first.

He turned to his friend with brow furrowed and lips pressed together. "How are you at roleplays?"

Two creases formed between Richard's eyebrows. "Roleplays? What are you on about?"

"Well — umm — you see, I'm going to need some practice breaking this to my nearest and dearest."

Richard's drink banged on the table. "You're going to do it? Mate, that's fantastic!" His hand clapped Thomas on the back, and his lips stretched almost to his ears. Then he quirked his head and peered at Thomas through slit eyelids. "Is it really that bad?"

Thomas finished his beer and set it down. "You have no idea."

Leaning forward on his elbows, Richard examined Thomas with black eyes. The warm light from the fire made his sunburned face glow pink. "Could you put in a word for me at Watermain & Sons in your absence?"

"I thought you wanted an international career and a tan. All you'll get there is a pasty complexion and high blood pressure."

"Ah, but you see, if you're going to pack your bags and jet off, they're going to need a fresh bum on your seat. And, as it happens, I am in the market for a pupillage."

Thomas started to speak, but Richard rose his hand in the air.

"The trick, Thomas, is to make yourself indispensable. After that, they're eating out of your hand, and you're jetting off to God-knows-where to save the world. Just put in a good word, yeah? I can make it work for both of us."

Thomas didn't like the chances of things turning out so simple, and yet half an hour ago, the year ahead had been set on a grim trajectory. "Sure."

Richard stuck out his hand. "Deal. Now, get us another round of beers to celebrate, and we can start practising."

Photo by Mary Rebecca Elliott on Unsplash.