Freya

by Anthony Quinn

  The only person who knew, apart from the GP, was Chrissie Effingham – which struck her as the oddest thing of all. Chrissie: not a friend, barely more than a stranger, and yet Freya had found herself making a confidante of the girl over breakfast in a caff. Chrissie’s big hungry eyes came back to her, accusingly. She had looked so hurt when she realised that Freya wasn’t going to keep the child. It was the first moment she had felt her resolve wobble. The encounter with Chrissie had jolted her in an unlikely way: she had conceived a tenderness for her that was possibly romantic, and possibly maternal. Such was the disorder in her head she was at a loss to distinguish between them. For the first time in her life she felt not wholly in possession of herself: decisions that she would have made in an instant now loomed before her as perilous leaps into the unknown.

  Regent’s Park Terrace modestly echoed the architectural shape of Regent’s Park itself. A long rectangular common garden screened the run of flat-fronted houses, linked by a necklace of wrought-iron balconies. The street was uncertainly placed in the social hierarchy. The grandeur of the park was a mere stroll south-west; the tatty streets and pubs of Kentish Town were not so far to the north. On the cooling night air came screeches of protest, or maybe desire – the monkeys were also having a party, at London Zoo. She had parked the Morgan, hood down, in a nearby crescent and walked a double circle as a protective measure against the wardens. She didn’t know they knocked off at six thirty.

  As she tapped the door knocker she tried to suppress her nerves – ‘intensities of flutter’ (she had been reading Henry James) – and wondered if either of the hosts would answer the door. To her relief they did not: a man in a dark suit and bow tie admitted her, and then handed her on to one of the waiting staff. She took a glass of wine from the tray. A few guests were chatting in the hallway, but the majority had colonised the long living room. The ‘little gathering’ Nancy had mentioned in her letter was a proper crowd, and presently at full gabble. She absorbed the room’s decor, trying to guess whose taste had determined it, his or hers. The dark William Morris wallpaper seemed at once sociable and earnest. The paintings and prints, though few, had been thoughtfully chosen. On the mantelpiece was a photograph of Robert in statesmanlike pose at a rally. And everywhere books, racked higgledy-piggledy along the floor-to-ceiling shelves, overflowing onto chairs and the faded velvet sofa, or else stacked in tottering ziggurats against the wall. She noticed the new Doris Lessing lying on top of one, and John Braine’s latest on another.

  She moved about, pausing at the edge of various clusters of people, scanning faces for anyone she might know. Some she encountered were familiar to her, but only in the way you recognised them from newspaper photographs. The French windows at the far end had been opened to accommodate the overspill, and she edged her way towards them. She hadn’t got far when a figure interposed himself, and there was Barry Rusk, her old editor from the Chronicle.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he said, by way of greeting, ‘but the hair confused me. Very Joan of Arc.’ Barry wore his career hack’s face with a jovial resignation; fifty-odd years of Fleet Street boozing had soaked into its contours and turned it violently florid.

  ‘I’ll take that if you mean Jean Seberg’s Joan.’

  ‘That’s the one. Not hearing voices, are you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Barry wanted to know what she’d been up to. ‘Last I heard you were engaged to Joss Philbrick, but then threw him over for Nat Fane.’

  Freya laughed. ‘I’m afraid your fact-checkers have let you down, Barry. I’ve never been engaged to anyone. And Nat’s just a friend.’

  ‘I see … So you’re writing for the Journal now? Your man Brock’s here, somewhere,’ he said, nodding vaguely at the throng. ‘Getting along there?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said, ‘when they’re not stealing stories from me.’

  Barry lifted his chin knowingly. ‘Ah. They should know better. “A volatile commodity”, Jock Renton used to call you. Asked ’em for a rise yet?’ This was a sardonic reference to the argument Freya had had with her bosses at the Chronicle when she got wind of a colleague’s recent pay rise – one who was junior and, crucially, male – and demanded one for herself. Barry was chuckling at the memory. ‘I’ll never forget the look on old Jock’s face when you finally lost your rag and said, Just give me what you fucking owe me. I thought he was gonna expire with the shock!’

  ‘Not enough to shock him into giving me a rise, though. I’ve wasted a lot of energy over the years trying to get my due.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re a fighter, and people admire that –’

  ‘But I don’t want to fight anyone. I only want to be given the same as –’

  ‘Ah, this is good news! Freya Wyley doesn’t want to fight anyone,’ interrupted Robert, his politician’s smile on full beam. At his side was Ivan Brock, eyes shifting from Freya to the host, perhaps gauging the warmth of their connection.

  Barry shook hands with Robert. ‘Congratulations on the win – you must be delighted.’ The papers, full of the Labour victory at Netherwick the day before, generally agreed that Robert’s championing of their candidate had clinched it.

  ‘Well, it was closer than we’d have liked, but –’ Robert turned to embrace the room – ‘the mood is buoyant, as you see.’ He was at ease, rather less his usual overdefined self, she thought. A glow seemed to lift off his smooth-shaven cheeks.

  ‘It should put the wind up Macmillan,’ said Brock. ‘The Tories probably thought they’d hold on, despite everything.’

  ‘You mean, despite their running a blatantly racist campaign? Look, this isn’t just about beating Bryan Lobbett and his goons – we’ve broken a lance against all those who think it’s OK to call for repatriating “niggers”. This sends out a message: we aren’t that society any more. Anyway –’ Robert stopped himself, and held up his hand – ‘this is a party, not a party broadcast. How’s everyone for a drink?’

  Barry waggled his glass encouragingly. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Robert, right by the park.’

  Robert dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘It’s fine. The neighbourhood’s been run down and neglected, but it’s showing signs of rejuvenation. A bit like the Labour Party. Where are you living, Freya?’ His beam was back on.

  ‘Islington.’

  ‘Oh, whereabouts?’

  ‘Canonbury Square.’

  ‘A good address! Orwell once lived there. And Waugh, I think? Odd that writers of such divergent politics fetched up in the same spot.’

  Freya nodded, saying, ‘And yet they had a purpose in common.’

  ‘What would that be?’ asked Robert, with an uncertain chuckle.

  ‘I suppose – to tell the truth about the mean-minded and hypocritical age they lived in. To lament the decline of a certain fair-playing, unbiddable Englishman. And to rail against the type who had taken his place. Perhaps you’ve read them differently.’

  The way she eyed Robert and the cool tone in which she spoke could hardly have been more pointed. She couldn’t help it: she would always be his antagonist. Barry wore the silently amused smirk of a neutral. Brock, clearing his throat, decided to deflect potential strife. ‘You see, that’s the sort of piece you should be writing for the paper. Something to fire up the left and the right.’

  Freya looked at him for a moment. ‘I already have written it, a few years ago in the Statesman. I think they headed it “The Disasters of Waugh”.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember that,’ said Barry pleasantly.

  Robert was shrewdly diplomatic in his response. ‘As I said, I’m very glad you don’t want to fight anyone.’ He held her look for a moment, then with a flash of his smile he led Brock away, to more congenial company. Barry waited until they were out of earshot.

  ‘That was … interesting. Batten down the hatches, here’s Freya Wyley and her very own cold front.’

  Freya answered his theme with a wintry smile.

  ‘Does this go back to that …?’
He had the newspaperman’s memory and appetite for gossip, especially the sort relating to their own kind.

  ‘Of course. Are you going to tell me now that he’s a “great bloke”?’

  Barry laughed. ‘Not really. I’ve met worse. Cosway’s a hustler. The sort who’d enter the revolving door behind you, and yet always get out in front. Weren’t you two –?’

  ‘You know we were. At Oxford, a long time ago.’ Her tone was sharp.

  ‘Right, sorry. Blimey …’ He shook his head. ‘I hope you don’t take a bite out of me. I’m not sure I’d recover.’

  ‘It’s simple, Barry. You must never, ever cross me, that’s all.’ She gave her sweetest smile. ‘Shall we get another?’

  They zigzagged through the close press of bodies towards a waiter holding a tray of drinks. Through the French windows she caught sight of her, and her heart dropped a sudden curtsy. Nancy was engaged in conversation, and Freya had a moment to observe her unawares; her hair was tied back and she wore a floral print dress that showed her long pale arms. Some withholding in her manner suggested that she was being polite rather than friendly to her interlocutor; it pleased Freya that even at this distance she could read the nuances of her old friend’s demeanour. She was going to turn away, but as if by some invisible thread Nancy’s eyes lifted at that exact instant to meet hers. Freya, as if discovered spying, was momentarily at a loss, but Nancy wasn’t: her eyes flashed and she raised her hand in greeting – in beckoning. So here it comes, Freya thought, trying to compose herself as she manoeuvred around the guests blocking her path. She had given nothing much away in her reply to Nancy’s letter, just a couple of lines thanking her for the invitation and accepting it. Not cold, but not warm, either: the social minimum.

  Now, with Nancy right in front of her, there would be no mistaking of mood or manner. They knew each other too intimately for that. Freya, with a sideways glance, gave an awkward half-smile as she held out her hand – it didn’t feel right, somehow. Nancy responded with a quick dimissive laugh at this formality and leaned in, lightly placing her hands on Freya’s shoulders and planting a kiss on the side of her mouth.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said, her smile (that smile) taking in Freya, who felt almost weak-kneed from the bright confidence of her greeting. ‘This is Freya,’ she explained to the young man at her side. ‘My oldest friend!’

  She had been curious as to how Nancy would introduce her, and again she was disarmed by her straightforwardness – no mention of fallings-out or froideurs or anything at all that might have shadowed the moment. My oldest friend was enough. The young man was Philip Holbrook, a secretary in Robert’s office, mid-twenties, hair parted down the middle, shortish but not bad-looking – though with an impatience about having his say. He was eager to revert to the conversation they’d been having about the party’s triumph at Netherwick, about what the win ‘meant’ and its possible bearing on the’64 election; it was almost as if he, not Robert, were the Member of Parliament. While he talked Freya felt Nancy’s appraising look fasten on her, and encoded within it a mutual sense of frustration that Philip and his interminable political monologue were keeping them from the vital event of their first conversation together in nearly eight years.

  ‘Are you a voter?’ he asked Freya, once he was ready to let the women have a trundle.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve been living in Rome for a while, so I missed the last two elections.’

  ‘I see. And before that?’

  ‘Oh … Labour, as far as I remember.’

  A light suddenly gleamed in Philip’s eyes. ‘Excellent! You’re just the type of person whose vote we’ll need in two years’ time –’

  ‘What “type of person” is that?’ asked Freya.

  He paused, not expecting the question. ‘Well … um, an ordinary person.’

  Freya pulled back her chin at that, and trying to sound amused, said, ‘Does anyone really think of themself as an “ordinary person”?’

  Nancy caught her tone, and understood. ‘Philip, it’s worth bearing something in mind when you start on the campaign – every voter is an individual. Freya, whom I’m sure you didn’t mean to offend, is the least ordinary person you’ll ever meet. In fact, there is no one else like her.’

  Philip, embarrassed, started to back-pedal frantically. He hadn’t meant ‘ordinary’ in the sense of – that is, he didn’t wish to seem in any way – if he had somehow – Nancy cut him short.

  ‘I wonder if you’d be a dear and fetch us both a drink?’

  He coloured, aware of his being dismissed. ‘Of course,’ he said, and with a little nod slunk away.

  As they watched him go, Nancy said quietly, ‘Oh dear, I hope I wasn’t rude.’ But there was a lightness in her remorse, and it came into its own as a genial self-assurance that had, Freya realised, grown mightily in her absence. ‘Let me look at you,’ Nancy said now, taking a half-step back as though to frame her. A tiny flicker of surprise flared in her eyes and vanished into a smile. ‘I can hardly believe you’re here, in front of me. The years!’

  Freya laughed. ‘Nor can I. How are you?’

  ‘Oh …’ She waved the question away. ‘I’d much rather talk about you. I do love your hair. It makes you look –’

  ‘Like a boy?’

  Nancy narrowed her eyes. ‘Like a gorgeous elf. How is it, being back in London? Have you seen anyone?’

  ‘I’ve seen Nat a few times. He’s living high on the hog in Albany – enjoying the bachelor life now Pandora’s gone.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that was over. Is he all right? I’m afraid I still haven’t seen The Hot Number.’

  Freya pulled an ambiguous expression. ‘It was fine, though hardly worthy of Nat. He said the best parts didn’t make the final cut. I can tell you who was decidedly not impressed …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Remember Jimmy Erskine?’

  ‘Oh, that name takes me back!’ cried Nancy. ‘The Oxford Union, wasn’t it? – I remember afterwards how excited you were about him agreeing to help get you started at the Chronicle. Jimmy Erskine … he must be ancient. Is he still writing?’

  Freya nodded. ‘He’s eighty-five – just published his second volume of memoirs, Echoes of Homer – Christ! I mean, Ecce Homo.’

  Nancy raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s sailing rather close to the wind …’

  ‘That’s what I thought … I felt a bit sorry for him. He’s fallen into neglect. I thought I might try to whip up a little revival for him.’

  ‘Nice of you.’

  ‘He said something quite interesting, actually. We’d been talking about luxury – you know he was a great collector and bon viveur in his day. He must be the only man in London who still wears spats! Well, I asked him what he thought the greatest luxury of all was, expecting him to name some car, or vintage wine, or what have you. D’you know what he said?’

  Nancy shook her head.

  ‘“Time.” He said the greatest fallacy of all is that you can buy time – but you can’t. “It is ineffable and ungraspable,”’ she said, slipping into an imitation of the Erskine drawl, ‘“and yet, most mysterious of all, it is free. And those who spend it properly are the richest people of all.”’

  Nancy smiled and nodded slowly. ‘He’s absolutely right. The luxury of time. To think of how much we waste just in –’

  Their eyes met, and held. She had made the remark innocently, but its pertinence was too close for them to ignore. The interval of years had suddenly obtruded itself and silenced them – not time wasted, but time they had chosen to live absent from each other. It was not something they could easily talk their way around.

  After some moments Nancy said, ‘Have you seen him yet?’

  Freya nodded. ‘He was friendly, and I’m afraid I didn’t answer him in kind. I still find it difficult, I’m sorry –’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise,’ Nancy said, frowning. ‘I realise I should have been – I don’t know –’

  Th
e sentence hung there, unresolved. Freya waited, and then said, ‘I’m glad I ran into him, though, at the Corsair. We might have gone another eight years without talking if I hadn’t.’

  ‘Oh, to think!’ said Nancy, averting her gaze.

  Freya, touched by this exclamation of fright, hurried on. ‘There’s another thing. Actually, two things. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your new book. I think it’s your best. And to thank you for what you wrote – I mean, for the dedication.’

  ‘As I said in my letter, I put it there in the hope you’d find it one day.’

  ‘Well, it was nice. No – I mean, it was lovely. Nat was rather envious. He’s never had one, so I had to promise that if I ever wrote a book I’d dedicate it to him.’

  Nancy threw her head back and laughed. It gave a glimpse of the inside of her mouth, of her neat white teeth, and Freya realised that this, even this, was something she had missed about her. She thought again of the years that had intervened, years that suddenly, in front of Nancy, seemed a delusion – a wilful spurning that had hurt no one more than herself.

  She took a sip of her drink, and when she looked up Nancy was gazing at her. She said, without warning, ‘D’you mind if I ask you something? Are you pregnant?’

  The surprise of this direct hit must have registered on her face, because it bounced right back onto Nancy’s. For a second Freya thought of denying it, but couldn’t gather the strength. ‘How did you – is it obvious?’

  Nancy seemed almost stricken by her own surmise. ‘No, no – though the moment I saw you I did wonder, perhaps …’

  Freya stared at her. ‘It was a mistake. I’m not in touch with –’ How could she begin to explain? It would make her sound so feckless. But Nancy was a step ahead of her.

  ‘You’re not going to keep it, are you?’ Her voice was low, and the shock of it was that she said it not as a question but a prediction.

  ‘Are you a fucking witch or something?’ Nancy had drawn out her secret just by studying her face. It was uncanny.

  ‘Oh God, Freya,’ she said, grasping her hands. ‘I’m sorry. How far along are you?’