Freya

by Anthony Quinn

  As the waiter cleared their plates, Stephen at last caught her eye and said, with a twinkle, ‘I see that you’ve been keeping a space.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  He addressed his reply to Diana. ‘She’s half crazed for the ice cream here.’

  ‘I don’t want any,’ said Freya, her voice flat and hard.

  Stephen’s frown was disbelieving. ‘What? You’re joking. The times we’ve been here and you’ve never once refused ice cream.’

  ‘The times with Mum, you mean.’

  Stephen paused, nonplussed. ‘What difference does that make?’

  She gave a bitter half-laugh. ‘No difference to you, evidently.’

  That shut them up; even Diana’s gaze was downcast for a moment. Freya, aware of herself torpedoing the jolly mood, folded her arms in silent misery. The minutes passed. She listened as her father restored the social temperature by asking Nancy about her plans, and Nancy telling him about Oxford and the reading list she had to get through this summer. It was Diana who finally coaxed her into a semblance of sociability. As the coffee and grappa came round, she cleared her throat and raised her glass.

  ‘I think we should have a victory toast, don’t you? To those brave women in the services, and to our very own representative at the table.’

  ‘Hear, hear – to Freya,’ said Stephen, pushing his own glass across the table to her. Reluctant to unbend, but touched by their tribute, she took up the glass and downed it in a gulp. Relief at her dismounting the high horse was palpable; Stephen called for more drinks, and she felt the full warmth of Nancy’s grateful beam.

  ‘So what will you do now?’ Diana asked.

  ‘Well … I go back to Plymouth and wait to be demobbed.’

  ‘Freya’s also got a place at Oxford,’ Nancy interposed, ‘but she’s insisting that she doesn’t want to go.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’

  She shrugged, not unamiably. ‘I’m not sure I’d fit in there – after the Wrens, I mean. And London feels like my home.’

  ‘But only think – Oxford! Such a wonderful opportunity. Stephen, tell her.’

  ‘I’ve told her,’ he said. ‘Three years of reading and studying books. What could be nicer?’

  Freya’s mouth assumed a downward twist. ‘You’d think twice about that when they put The Faerie Queene in front of you.’

  Diana was shaking her head, puzzled. ‘Just the place itself would be enough to persuade me. And you’ll also have Nancy around for company.’

  Nancy blushed at this unexpected elevation of her status; Diana plainly had no idea they’d only met yesterday. Freya, however, felt a sudden generous upsurge, and conceded, ‘I suppose having Nancy there would be a reason.’

  More drinks arrived, and the convivial atmosphere held until Stephen turned to Freya and said, ‘If you’re going back this evening I could give you a lift to Paddington.’

  The convenience of being driven to the station appealed, though she said, ‘That’d be an awful bore for you.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. Diana, what’s the time?’

  Diana pushed back her sleeve to glance at her wristwatch, a Rolex, its face at once familiar and its hands pointing towards realisation: not his, but hers. She felt her blood run cold.

  ‘Your watch,’ she said. ‘It’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ smiled Diana.

  ‘Actually, I’ve seen it before. This morning – in the bathroom at Tite Street.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Diana quietly. She had gone pale. Stephen had averted his gaze.

  ‘Now I understand why you’re so keen for me to go to Oxford,’ said Freya, staring at her. ‘You should have been honest about it. “Such a wonderful opportunity.” Yes – an opportunity to get me out of the way.’

  ‘But I didn’t mean that at all,’ protested Diana.

  ‘Oh really?’ said Freya with a sneer, and now looked at Stephen. ‘You haven’t wasted much time, have you? Moving in this – person before you’ve even left your wife. That’s nice –’

  ‘Freya,’ said Stephen in a low voice, ‘stop it.’

  ‘Tell me, though, did you think you could keep it a secret? It must have been very convenient with me being away from London all this time. Sorry to interrupt the fun.’

  Diana, dismay crumpling her face, said imploringly, ‘Freya, dear, that’s not the way it is at all. I’ve been longing to meet you, truly, and we’ve never even thought of keeping it “secret” from you. Heavens, your father and I have only recently –’

  ‘Shut up! Just shut your bloody cakehole,’ Freya snapped. A fury had suddenly possessed her; her whole body was shaking with it.

  ‘Freya, calm down,’ said Stephen warningly. ‘Stop behaving like a petulant little prig. Diana, I’m very sorry about this, my daughter seems to have taken leave of her manners, but in a moment she’s going to apologise –’

  ‘No she’s fucking well not,’ Freya muttered, and glared at Stephen. ‘You should apologise to me for being a liar and breaking up our family.’

  They were stunned into silence for a moment. Diana stared down at the table, mortified. She felt Nancy gazing at her in a trance of disbelief. Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then said, in a tone more of regret than rebuke, ‘You can call me what you like, but I’ll not have you being rude to Diana. Either you can –’

  ‘Stephen, please,’ said Diana. ‘She’s upset, I understand. I just want Freya to –’

  ‘I don’t give a tinker’s toss what you want,’ Freya half snarled, pushing her chair back from the table. The sudden jarring noise caused heads to turn. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going, you can get on with your lives again. All I’ve ever asked from people is honesty. The last person I ever imagined would deceive me was my own father. Thanks a lot.’

  She stood up, dropped her napkin on the floor and headed for the door. She heard Diana rise from the table and Stephen’s quiet restraining words (‘Don’t – just leave her’). She didn’t look back. Outside, the life of Dean Street was carrying on regardless, the market men and stallholders yarning away. From somewhere could be heard the clang of church bells. She walked quickly on, feeling her eyes brim; she didn’t know whether she was more angry with her father and Diana or with herself for making a scene and provoking them to pity. And for what? She knew her father had had affairs before, it had started with that actress, the one who died – but he had always kept them quiet, preserving the peace. Her mother would be none the wiser, and the family would remain intact. No more. His introducing this woman to her was the sign: his marriage was kaput.

  She had been walking, head down, eyes blurred. The excitements of last night bore down on her like a weight, the drinks and the drugs, the dancing, the lack of sleep. Turning into Wardour Street she mounted the steps of the little churchyard and stopped halfway up, and sat down, exhausted. The yard was now a public garden, though the church had been bombed out. Ruins everywhere. A world of ash and dust. She felt the tears come freely now. She crossed her arms over her knees and let her head sink down.

  ‘Freya?’ She looked up. Nancy stood there, hovering uncertainly, a survivor of the crossfire. ‘You were walking so quickly I nearly lost you. May I …?’

  Freya said nothing, so Nancy lowered herself next to her on the stone step. They sat there for a few moments, unspeaking, faces averted from one another. She knuckled her eyes dry. She wished Nancy hadn’t followed her, the girl was a bit of a pest, really.

  Her throat felt congested and sore. ‘I suppose you’re thinking what an awful spoilt bitch I am.’ She felt Nancy flinch at the word. ‘And what shocking language I use.’

  A pause, and Nancy said, ‘I’ve not heard “shut your cakehole” before – well, not from a girl at any rate.’

  Freya stifled a snort. ‘They let us swear as much as we liked at Tipton, the school I told you about. From the age of ten I sounded like a navvy.’

  Nancy let a beat go, and said, ‘I’m sorry … It mu
st be very upsetting. But your dad probably wanted to – I don’t know –’

  ‘What?’ said Freya irritably.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Nancy, dropping her gaze.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. He’s all sweet reason and graciousness, while I’m just a bloody nuisance who makes scenes.’ She looked to Nancy for a response, and getting none she merely scowled. Then she said, ‘What did you think of her?’

  Nancy took a breath. ‘Don’t bite my head off, but … I thought she was nice.’

  Freya, galled by this mildly voiced justice, continued to brood. When she next spoke her tone was calm, but decisive. ‘You can only properly love someone when you trust them. And the only way to trust someone is through their being honest. It’s the beginning of morality. D’you see?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Nancy quietly.

  Freya shifted around on the step to face her. ‘I can trust you, can’t I?’

  Nancy held her gaze. ‘Of course you can.’ The sincerity in her voice, almost pleading, made it impossible to doubt. The moment vibrated between them. Then Nancy stood up. ‘Just wait there, will you? Don’t move.’

  She hurried down the steps and disappeared round the corner. Bemused, Freya sat there. Reviewing the events of the last hour she felt herself bristle with a confusion of anger, self-righteousness and embarrassment, this last emotion scraping an ever more insistent note on her nerves: she could foresee the dismal prospect of having to apologise. But then – why the hell should she? She hated ‘having-tos’. She’d had enough of obligations. Something else had changed, and she thought she knew what it was: her father had always paid her the honour of being a co-conspirator. Now that was gone, too. Minutes passed, and she raked her gaze along the street, wondering where Nancy had got to. She listened to the ambient noise of Soho, its hum of possibility and loneliness calling to her, like a summons.

  Five minutes, ten minutes, she wasn’t sure how long Nancy had been gone. But all of a sudden she was there, crossing the road, looking wonderfully lithe in those wide-legged slacks she had lent her this morning. She was smiling broadly, and holding up two ice-cream cones, one in each hand, as if they were torches to light their way.

  3

  At the lodge, the bowler-hatted porter licked his thumb as he riffled through the list of arrivals.

  ‘Wyley … Wyley … Miss Eff –?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Freya. She thought of trying a smile, but something about the man’s bored, jowly face suggested it would go to waste, so she stayed impassive.

  ‘Staircase 14,’ he said, reaching behind for a key. No ‘welcome to the college’, not even a simple ‘good morning’. She took the key and asked him if someone could help with her trunk. The porter nodded in dismissal.

  Such gallantry. When the train had pulled into Oxford she had expected one of the many ex-servicemen crowding at the carriage door to offer his assistance; one or two of them had been eyeing her all the way from Paddington. But they had just poured out of the train with their own burdens, leaving her to struggle alone with the massive travelling trunk. It was like trying to lift the bottom half of a wardrobe. She had looked about for a station porter, in vain. Somehow she had managed to drag it off the luggage rack and shift it, crabwise, to the door, but once there it would require a feat of prehensile strength quite beyond her to lever it from the compartment onto the platform. Was there really not one among them who might put himself out to help?

  She must have sighed aloud, because just at the instant of despair a young man, muffled up in a college scarf, had stopped at the open door.

  ‘May I help you with that?’

  She had smiled her assent, darting a glance at him. He was in his mid-twenties, tall, rangy-looking, with floppy hair of a nondescript brown. Narrowing his eyes at the problem, he had tilted the trunk at an angle and pulled it halfway out of the door, then said to her, ‘Right, you push it from your end – and I’ll bring it down on this side. Gently does it.’

  His voice was mannerly, with the faintest burr of something northern. Between them they had succeeded in coaxing the trunk downwards before its weight took over and it slithered onto the platform with an unarguable thunk. ‘Hope that hasn’t damaged your crockery,’ he’d said with a comical grimace. They stood gazing for a moment at the unwieldy object. He didn’t appear to have any luggage of his own.

  ‘Well, nice to know there are still gentlemen,’ she’d said.

  He had given a modest little dip of his head. ‘I’ll fetch you a porter.’

  As he’d walked off, she’d thought to herself, Crockery? She sat down on the trunk and lit a cigarette while passengers streamed by on either side of her. The morning air felt stiff and inhospitable, and smuts were drifting off the train and settling on people’s coats. Behind her a porter had arrived with a trolley.

  ‘If you’ll allow me, miss …’

  ‘Oh.’ She had stood up, looking over his shoulder for the man who had come to her aid. He had gone. Evidently his securing the services of a porter had excused him any further obligation. Or else he had been in a hurry himself? In which case his help had been all the more chivalrous. His disappearance was a little unsatisfying, though, because she had not had a chance to thank him. She had handed the porter a bob as he’d wedged the trunk into the vacant foot space of the taxi, and then they were off.

  Freya hadn’t seen Oxford in the three years since her interview. Her memory of the place had been mostly nocturnal, for her visit had coincided with the dead of winter when the city was still in blackout. The pale buildings had looked eerily beautiful with only moonlight for illumination. But Hitler hadn’t bombed here after all. Now in daylight the shade of its stonework, somewhere between fawn and grey, seemed to complement the devotional contours of its architecture. The lawns of Somerville’s quadrangles shone green after a night of rain.

  Entering the staircase she inhaled a mixture of damp stone, coal smoke and dust. On a wooden board she saw her name painted, white on black, and felt a pleasant shiver of self-importance. The door to her rooms on the second floor was already open, and revealed, to her dismay, evidence of occupation. Nobody had told her she would be sharing. A trunk not unlike her own squatted in the middle of the living room, and a coat had been tossed over the back of the couch. A fire burned wispily in the grate. She crossed the room and opened the far door, a narrow bedroom, its twin on the other side. She knelt on the window seat and pushed open the oriel to look out on the quad; a cluster of students in gowns were ambling around the perimeter, chatting away. She sank into a trance of absorption, and wondered what people might make of the woman gazing out of the window, wearing a camel-coloured sweater and (she supposed) a look of sullen scrutiny. People sometimes told her she looked cross when, in fact, she was merely preoccupied. But then people were always assuming things about you.

  She heard footsteps on the landing, and the door creaked forward. A girl came through carrying a blackened kettle.

  ‘Oh, hullo,’ she said. ‘I was wondering when you’d arrive. I’ve just got some water to boil. Tea?’

  She introduced herself as Ginny – Virginia – a short, sturdy girl who moved about the room with the confidence of one who’d been in situ for weeks, though it transpired she’d only arrived about an hour before. Her hair was bobbed, with a severe fringe; her eyes and mouth seemed too large for her neat, heart-shaped face. She looked at Freya with keenly appraising eyes.

  ‘I suppose you’ve been in the service. Let me guess – the Waaf?’

  Freya shook her head. ‘Wrens. You?’

  ‘ATS. Two years of it.’ She took the kettle off the boil and began rummaging in her trunk. She fished out a couple of tin mugs and clanked them together. ‘Army issue; didn’t suppose they’d be missed. I gather we’re meant to have brought our own crockery.’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t get that memo,’ said Freya.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry – we can always borrow someone’s. Here,’ she said, handing
her a mug. ‘By the way, you’ve got some post.’

  ‘Already?’ She immediately thought of Nancy. Ginny pointed to a note she had placed on the mantelpiece: it was from Jean Markham. She hadn’t seen her since their abortive get-together on VE Day.

  Dearest F

  Arrived yesterday and popped in to see if you were about. Call on me at Lady Margaret Hall at your earliest.

  Jean

  A knock came from outside, and two porters hefted her trunk through the door. One of them, a cocky youth of about her own age, blew out his cheeks in comic exhaustion and said, ‘Dunno what you’ve got in there but it weighs a ton.’

  Freya turned, and with a straight face said, ‘Oh, that’s just the dead body.’

  He frowned at her, bemused, and with a glance at his mate backed out. When the door had closed Ginny looked at her and let out an outraged guffaw.

  ‘Naugh-ty,’ she said in a mock-schoolmarmish tone. ‘Now, which bedroom d’you prefer? It’s a choice between overlooking the street or facing the kitchens.’

  Freya, not caring either way, picked the street view. She dragged in the trunk and started to unpack; most of her good clothes had come from her mother, either as gifts or cast-offs. As well as clothes here were all sorts of oddments: a candlestick holder (with candles), an ivory-backed hairbrush, a mirror, an alarm clock, her father’s old tennis racket, still in its frame press, a straight dozen of his jazz records, some sheet music in case she decided to practise, a camera, a selection of Oxford World Classics, a Boulestin cookbook she almost knew would never be consulted, a smart silver cocktail shaker, an electric reading lamp, a selection of her mother’s home-made jams, a tin of tea, coffee essence (ugh), and – her one memento from Devonport naval base – a pair of bruised, dun-coloured boxing gloves, given to her by an admiring drill instructor.