Freya

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘I recall certain painter friends of Stephen’s who rolled their own – usually the very poorest.’

  ‘Would you like me to make you one?’

  Cora shook her head in refusal, but continued to watch mesmerised as Freya filled and rolled the paper, then sealed the edges with the tip of her tongue.

  ‘Now while I remember –’ She took a card from her handbag and passed it across the table; inside it was a cheque for a sum that made Freya blink in astonishment. ‘I couldn’t imagine what you might want, so …’

  ‘Mum, really, this is – I thought you just said you weren’t made of money?’

  ‘Well, I’m hardly a pauper!’

  Freya leaned over to kiss her, and mumbled her thanks.

  ‘– and anyway you’ll need a bit extra for when you settle down,’ her mother continued, eyeing her over the teacup.

  ‘Who said anything about settling down?’

  Cora gave her a level stare. ‘You know, when I was thirty, I’d been married seven years and had had two children. It doesn’t seem to me wildly out of the question that one day Joss is going to – well –’

  ‘Please don’t get your hopes up.’

  Her mother tilted her head in an appraising way. ‘May I ask you something, darling? Do you and Joss ever, you know –’ she lowered her voice – ‘share a bed?’

  Freya rolled her eyes. ‘Oh God, Mum, of course we do. That doesn’t mean you’ve got to plunge into marriage.’

  Cora’s reply began with an exclamatory noise that somehow mixed objection and acceptance. ‘I don’t see how it can last indefinitely. Sooner or later you’ve got to decide. In my day they called it “living in sin”.’

  ‘They still call it that,’ said Freya. If her mother had known how things really stood between her and Joss she might have kept her own counsel. But of course she did not, and so felt free to enlarge on the matter.

  ‘The truth is, it’s different for men. They know they can just string you along and take their time about settling down. A woman doesn’t have that luxury. If she doesn’t seize her moment, well, there’s a chance it may not come again. I dare say Joss thinks the world of you, but nothing is certain until you’ve got him wrapped up tight.’

  ‘What – like a python? Joss is ten years older than me. Have you considered that there might be more urgency on his side?’

  She found her mother’s sad little shake of the head rather maddening. ‘Doesn’t work like that. Where marriage is concerned men need to be prompted, at gunpoint if necessary.’

  Freya gave a tight smile, and said, ‘You remember my friend Robert, from Oxford? He’s just had his divorce papers through – and he couldn’t be happier.’

  This succeeded in bringing a halt to her mother’s musing on the different priorities of men and women. Their conversation turned to the party and whom among the guests her mother might know.

  ‘Oh, isn’t it wonderful about Nancy?’ said Cora. ‘When I got your postcard about her book I felt a little tear in my eye.’

  Freya smiled. ‘What a day that was. We were both in the swimming pool when the telegram arrived. To be honest, Nance’s face when she read it, well – she looked so shocked I thought it had to be somebody ailing, or dying. Or dead. So the actual news was even better, because it felt like a reprieve, too.’

  Cora nodded, a distance lighting in her eyes. ‘I remember her talking about her writing when we met for lunch that time in Oxford. No one like her for blushing! Tell me, does she have a young man?’

  ‘As a matter of fact she does. The man I just mentioned – Robert.’

  ‘Really? But weren’t you and he –?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  Cora gave a little pout of surprise. ‘Gosh. Very Bloomsbury. So do you think they’re going to last?’

  ‘Who knows. Maybe you should ask her tonight.’ She looked at her mother, who seemed to be pondering the idea. ‘I’m joking, by the way. Please don’t ask her. They’ve only recently got together, so it’s very lovey-dovey. In fact you can hardly separate them.’

  ‘Darling, you sound a little envious.’

  Freya shook her head. ‘Not at all. Believe me, Robert’s about the last man in the world I’d pick for a mate.’

  She had a curious sense of something wrong with this reply, but couldn’t put a finger on what it was. In any case there wasn’t time to mope. She had to get back to the flat to let Rowan in; he was coming down from Cambridge and had reserved the divan for the evening. She kissed her mother goodbye: they’d see one another at the party a few hours hence.

  She was no sooner through the door at Great James Street than Nancy came hurrying out of her bedroom, wearing the expression of one with urgent news.

  ‘You’ll never guess who rang for you – Alex.’

  Freya gave a little start at the name. ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of hours ago. At first he asked for you without saying who it was – shyness, I suppose – but I recognised his voice, so we talked for a few moments. He said he’d been out of town for a while and had only just picked up your party invitation. He wasn’t sure he could make it tonight but said he’d try, and, well – that was it.’

  She was stunned. He had practically dropped off the face of the earth these last weeks and now, out of the blue, he was back. She supposed he must have read her remorseful letter as well. Without another word she reached for the telephone and rang his number. Nancy watched her as she held the receiver to her ear. Freya returned a little shake of her head: no reply.

  ‘How did he sound to you?’

  ‘Not very keen to talk. But not desperate.’

  Infuriating to have missed him. Still, it seemed he was back in London if he’d just picked up her invitation.

  ‘All well with your mum?’

  Freya nodded. ‘She’s staying at the Strand Palace. We had a pleasant little chat about my prospects at thirty. She thinks it’s high time I stopped living in sin and got Joss to lead me to the altar.’

  Nancy grimaced in sympathy. ‘Oh dear. What did you say?’

  ‘I think I pretty much squashed her illusions.’

  ‘But what if Joss did want to, um, lead you to the altar?’

  Freya allowed herself a disbelieving chuckle. ‘Nance. They’d have to drag me.’

  Her brother arrived from Cambridge in the late afternoon, bearing a sponge cake his landlady had made. The HAPPY BIRTHDAY FREYA she had inscribed with fondant icing had been smudged to near-illegibility by the time they lifted it from its tin. Freya cut them each a slice.

  ‘This is awfully good,’ she said through a mouthful of cake. ‘Compliments to the landlady.’

  Rowan, in a striped tie, V-neck sweater and dark trousers, looked ever more like a lanky schoolboy. ‘I’ve got something else for you,’ he said, and went to rummage in his suitcase. He returned with a thin, squarish package wrapped in brown paper; she opened it to find a long-playing record, Songs in an Intimate Style by Peggy Lee. Freya held it up for Nancy to inspect.

  ‘You love her, don’t you?’

  ‘I do! You dear boy, how clever of you to choose this.’

  Rowan nodded ruminatively. ‘Actually, it was Margery’s idea. I told her it was your birthday and you liked that sort of “cocktail” music, so she suggested I order this for you. It arrived just in time.’

  Nancy said, ‘Who’s Margery?’

  ‘Oh, my landlady. She’s very good with things like that.’

  A look passed between Nancy and Freya, who said musingly, ‘You seem rather friendly with this landlady of yours. Now I recall, the last time you were here she’d done some running repairs on your trousers.’

  ‘Yes. She does all my cooking and washing, too,’ Rowan said, with no hint of humour in his voice. ‘It’s as good as having a wife, really.’

  Freya narrowed her eyes a moment. ‘How old is this Margery, by the way?’

  He protruded his bottom lip, frowning. ‘Not sure. Possibly about thirty-seven. Or thirty-nine? Why
do you ask?’

  Freya looked her brother in the face, and read not the smallest trace of knowingness on it. He was impossible to tease, because he had no feeling for irony or incongruity. ‘No reason. Just wondering.’

  ‘It’s nice to get on with your landlady,’ said Nancy, probing a little herself, ‘given how much time you spend under the same roof …’

  Rowan took the comment, characteristically, at face value. ‘I quite agree,’ he said. When he had gone off to the bathroom, Freya shot Nancy another significant look.

  ‘You see, my mother would gain more satisfaction as a counsellor if she concentrated on Rowan and his landlady.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a spark between them?’ asked Nancy.

  Freya laughed. ‘I think “spark” would be asking rather a lot of Rowan. I’d guess it’s more Darby and Joan than Troilus and Cressida.’

  ‘I hope this woman isn’t taking advantage of him.’

  ‘With all the washing and sewing and baking it could be that he’s taking advantage of her.’

  She glanced at her watch, and gave a little gasp of panic. Two hours to the party and she hadn’t even had a bath yet. She had just turned the taps on when Nancy edged in behind her, holding a little box with a ribbon tied around it.

  ‘I’ve been worrying about giving you this. I’m not sure you’ll –’

  But Freya had already removed the ribbon and pulled open the box. On the velvet lining lay a tiny gold cross and chain.

  ‘Nance! It’s beautiful.’

  She picked it up, as fine as silk thread and so fragile-seeming it might break at a touch. Pulling her hair away from her neck she fixed the catch and felt its lightness trickling against her skin. She stepped in front of the bathroom mirror, which presented their paired reflection. The cross glinted at the hollow of her throat. Behind her Nancy’s hopeful expression sought her approval. Freya joined her hands in pious expression, and they both laughed.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, turning from the glass to throw her arms about Nancy.

  While she was soaking in the bath the telephone rang and she sat up very abruptly, ears pricked. She thought for a moment it might be Alex again, but the steadiness of Nancy’s voice soon indicated the call was for her. Though she couldn’t make out the words, she could hear something dismayed, then displeased, in Nancy’s tone. She was arguing with someone.

  Freya had forgotten all about it by the time she was out of the bath and getting dressed. With twenty minutes to spare before they set off for Hampstead she went into the kitchen to make them drinks. Nancy, sitting alone at the table, looked up, her face clouded.

  ‘Robert telephoned,’ she said. ‘He’s very sorry but he can’t come to the party.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said he’s working on a story that will take him all night. I told him nothing could be that important, but he just kept apologising and saying it was impossible for him to get away.’

  ‘But he’s not meant to be on the late shift.’

  Nancy shook her head. ‘I made it pretty clear I was furious.’

  Freya couldn’t understand it. For all his strenuous ambition Robert was not one to miss a party for the sake of work – and such a party. Perhaps Standish had got hold of a story that needed immediate attention.

  ‘Churchill hasn’t died, has he?’

  Nancy made a face. ‘Even that wouldn’t have stopped Robert coming. I’m so sorry, Freya.’

  At that moment Rowan wandered in wearing a double-breasted blazer and trews that might have suited a cashiered major on a golfing holiday. ‘Something the matter?’ he said.

  ‘That blazer, for starters,’ said Freya, eyes widening. ‘Don’t tell me – the landlady picked it out for you.’

  Rowan returned a look of artless surprise. ‘She did, as a matter of fact.’

  She saw Nancy’s shoulders jerk in silent laughter. ‘Right, a sharpener before we go? I’ve got Kay’s recipe for her special negronis here.’

  Joss’s house was on Downshire Hill. Guests were already milling about as they walked through the living room into the back garden. A jazz quartet was spiking the soft evening air with reedy trills and squeaks. The ‘special’ nature of Kay’s negronis, Freya had discovered, was their flooringly strong alcohol content. The slight swoon she’d had on stepping out of the taxi confirmed it. At her side Nancy looked steady, and she entwined an arm self-protectively through hers.

  Across the lawn Stephen was gently escorting his father towards her, making sure the old boy got in a word before the party became too noisy. Grandpa Wyley, of a distant Victorian vintage, was looking frailer these days and grasped a walking stick in his bony, liver-spotted hand. But he was socially game and enduringly dapper in his dress; a silk handkerchief peeked from the breast pocket of his cream-coloured jacket. The tips of his shoes gleamed like spoons.

  ‘Ah, the birthday girl,’ said Mr Wyley in his friendly, quavering voice. She leaned in to kiss him on his cheek and listened, chortling, with a mixture of affection and duty, while he revisited a favourite story of her truanting from school as a girl. She seemed to have made a habit of running away from things.

  ‘Dad, this is Freya’s great friend Nancy,’ said Stephen, folding her into the family circle.

  Freya loved the way Stephen had always called his father ‘Dad’, where others of that generation would have called their male parent ‘Father’ or ‘Pa’ or even ‘Pater’. As she half listened to Nancy recounting the history of their friendship to the old man, Freya said quietly to Stephen, ‘Have you talked to Mum yet?’

  He nodded. ‘She seems in very good fettle. I introduced her to Diana.’

  ‘Oh God … how did that go?’

  ‘Very respectful on both sides. Like two prizefighters touching gloves.’ He turned to face the white marquee where the band had just struck up. ‘Joss has pushed the boat out for you, I must say.’

  ‘I know. Sorry about the other day, all that nonsense at the flat. I felt rather guilty …’

  ‘Well, you needn’t,’ said Stephen with a wry little chuckle. ‘Anyway, it sounds like the music has been taken care of. Perhaps you could put me on your dance card for later.’

  ‘You bet!’ she smiled.

  Amid the guests crowding the lawn she spotted the host, and left her father talking to some of her old colleagues from Frame. Nodding this way and that as people waved and grinned at her, she felt like someone who’d just won a prize without being able to ascertain for what.

  Joss, breaking off from a conversation, studied her. ‘I’ve always loved you in that thing,’ he said rather sadly, and kissed her on the mouth.

  ‘That’s why I wore it,’ she said. It was a long sleeveless dress, oyster-coloured, silk. She had worn it on their first dinner date, and very seldom since. They had drawn away slightly from the throng; it was clear from his troubled frown that he was about to deliver a Big Speech. She felt a sharp jab of self-rebuke as he began, stumblingly, a pained account of how things stood: he realised something had been ‘off’ between them for a while, he wasn’t sure why, perhaps he hadn’t been very supportive of her in the new job, or else he’d been prickly over some change in her behaviour. Whatever the reason, he was damned sorry for it, and he wanted more than anything to get back to the way they had once been, because –

  ‘Joss, please, I should be the one apologising,’ she cut in. ‘I’ve been so preoccupied with one thing and another it’s almost like I’ve forgotten how to behave. Instead of being the nice girl you thought I was I’ve been a moody cow, and I’m sorry. This –’ she gestured around at the clusters of people – ‘is wonderful and lovely and much more than I deserve.’

  ‘I never thought you were a nice girl,’ he said, a smile twitching his mouth, ‘and it is exactly what you deserve – to be surrounded by all the people who love you and cherish you.’

  The kindliness of these last words made her eyes moisten. She felt her mood turning dangerously confessional. ‘Joss, there’s someth
ing I –’

  Whatever she had been preparing to say was interrupted by Nancy, urgent at her shoulder and pointing at the French windows where an inconceivable figure had just emerged, uncertainly looking about for a face he might recognise. She hurriedly excused herself from Joss and slalomed through the press of people towards him, her own uncertainty going like tom-toms in her chest.

  She called his name, and turning to her Alex smiled, a smile that had always contained in it (she saw now) a plea for understanding, for mitigation.

  ‘Nancy told me you’d rung, but I couldn’t quite believe you’d turn up.’

  ‘How could I miss this? My dear, dear Freya –’ he seized her in an embrace so fierce it almost winded her – ‘what a friend you’ve been to me.’

  She was confused. The last time they had met she had rebuffed him when he’d asked to borrow money. ‘Alex, you got my letter, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course. And I feel ashamed that I should have put you in such a position. But that’s all finished with.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  He gave her a fondly sceptical look. ‘I heard what you did, Freya. A man called Jerry Dicks telephoned me – he said, “The genie is back in the bottle,” and that the negatives were in his safe keeping.’

  ‘But how – how did he do that? Did he pay him off?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. What I do know is that your intervention saved me. I took three weeks’ leave of absence and disappeared. There was no way I could keep paying, so I took off north, to Scotland, expecting Sewell to blow the gaff at any moment. I was quite prepared to – to make a permanent exit.’ Alex held up his hands to forestall her expression of concern. ‘When he went quiet I began to wonder what had happened – then a couple of days after I returned to London an anonymous telephone call came through. I was to wait in my flat until Jerry Dicks called. He told me you were the one who’d sparked the whole thing off. Honestly, it’s like being granted a pardon …’

  She had searched his face as he spoke. In spite of his relief a vitality had gone out of him; his complexion had a grey, shrunken look, and a haunted distance had settled in his eyes. The years had ambushed him. And to think he owed his deliverance to a man like Jerry Dicks. There was a warning there.