Freya

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘But you’ve worked at it, too,’ said Nat shrewdly.

  ‘Certainly I have. I’m not a genius,’ he said, pausing for a moment in case someone cared to object. ‘Only Hazlitt and Shaw among theatre writers deserve that honorific. For the last thirty-seven years at the Chronicle I’ve worked ten hours a day, not counting the time I’ve spent attending the plays and reading the books for review. A writer must always be working at his craft, refining it. Flaubert said, “Prose is like hair – it shines with combing.” That is the way to succeed. But mark all the hundreds of ways one can fail – by being inattentive, lazy, slapdash, weak-willed. By not taking pains. By settling for the notion that “this’ll do”. One could also mention the temptation –’ here he turned pointedly to Nat – ‘to overegg the mixture. The boy Fane here can write, damnably well when it pleases him. His error, he won’t mind my saying, is the old one of showing off. Use one or two quotations and you pique the reader’s appetite; use one hundred and he’ll reel away from the page sickened. And keep your punning in check, too. “Monocle of all he surveys” indeed! That’s vulgar, I’m afraid, like cheap jewellery.’

  Nat, far from being offended by these strictures, smiled and bowed and said, ‘I shall in all my best obey you, madam.’

  Jimmy let loose a snort of laughter, and wiggled his empty glass. ‘Dry old do, this. Will someone please fetch me another brandy and soda?’

  By now he had plumped down on a little sofa, where a knot of students had congregated around him. Once someone had hurried over with a bottle of cognac he proceeded to entertain the company with a daisy chain of theatrical and literary anecdotes that stinted nothing in name-dropping, rival-bashing and self-aggrandising. He had met nearly every British theatrical personage of note in the last forty years and could recall, apparently verbatim, whatever conversation he’d had with them: ‘As Gielgud once confided to me …’ was a characteristic overture. Freya watched him hawkishly; like the rest of them she was mesmerised. Everything about Jimmy Erskine was prodigious: his conceit, his memory, his appetite for talk, his will to amuse. So too his ability to drink, though he was one of those boozers who put it away without being much affected beyond a reddening nose; the bottle of Martell which the youth had obligingly set before him was down to a quarter two hours later, and the old boy hadn’t slurred a syllable.

  Freya, wondering where Alex had got to, was about to go off in search when someone piped up with a question about Nazi Germany and war reporting. Whom among the press did he rate? Jimmy’s answer was unhesitating.

  ‘Greatest of my generation is Jessica Vaux, or Jecca Beaumont as I knew her back in the twenties. A remarkable woman, and terrifying once she had the whiff of cordite in her nostrils. Did you know she kept a loaded revolver on her bedside table? Ha! I like a woman who can defend herself. Had it been me in those squeaks I’d have scrambled to the nearest shelter and prayed for the cavalry. She never did.’

  ‘Do you see her still?’ asked Freya.

  ‘Oh, not for years. She moves about a lot – lived in Paris for a while. I heard somewhere that she’s gone to Nuremberg for the Tribune. I wonder if it bothers Goering that he will now be only the second most frightening person in the courtroom.’

  While the rest laughed, Freya felt sparks fly off the cogs and wheels grinding inside her head. Nuremberg: Stephen would be there at the same time. What an opportunity for him – he must introduce himself to her, who knows, he could even ask to paint her, in which event … She was still making these calculations when Nat stood and asked them, ‘before the curtain falls’, to give their guest of honour a send-off. Erskine inclined his head to acknowledge this second round of applause. He had talked for longer in the bar than he had on the stage. How exasperating, Freya thought, that he’d revealed his acquaintance with Jessica Vaux just as he was about to leave – she had so many things she wanted to ask him.

  Nat had gone down to the street to whistle up a taxi; Jimmy had been left on his own on the sofa, absently twiddling his cane. A sudden wild initiative pierced her, like an electric charge making her skin prickle – she’d thought it an opportunity for Stephen, but that wasn’t right. Almost mechanically she forced herself to join him, perching at a respectful edge on the couch. His expression was one of glazed indifference, and she decided to cut straight to it.

  ‘Mr Erskine –’

  ‘Jimmy, my dear,’ he drawled.

  ‘– I’ve been thinking about what you said – about how you took your opportunity. Well, this is Jessica Vaux’s first time in Germany since 1938. I have an idea of arranging an interview with her while she’s reporting from Nuremberg. Would you be able to help me place it, at a newspaper?’

  She thought his monocle might pop out, but he only squinted at her. ‘Hmm, I might have known it would be you … At the risk of being shredded in your jaws I must decline. I’m bombarded by requests from people all the time – please read my play, read my novel, read (God help me!) my book of poems. Dozens in the post, every day. If I dealt with one I’d be obliged to deal with ’em all. So I refuse. It’s safer that way.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to read anything. The article I’d write would be good enough for print – I only need a berth for it.’

  ‘Then try the berths and deaths column,’ he said, turning away.

  She was prepared for his rudeness, and parried the thrust. ‘I don’t believe you never make an exception. And I am, after all, only taking my cue from a master – I just need the bit of luck you got.’

  Jimmy dismissed the flattery with a sardonic snort. ‘At such moments I find myself thinking of a line from Charlotte Brontë’s Villette. It goes: “I now signified that it was imperatively necessary I should be relieved of the honour of her presence.” Isn’t that a wonderfully elegant way of saying “Piss off”?’

  Freya nodded. ‘And yet – I’m still here.’

  He sighed. ‘Tenacious as well as impertinent. Listen to me, your scheme is quite hare-brained. First of all, Jessica Vaux hasn’t been interviewed in years – unlike some of us, she doesn’t enjoy the attention. Second, at Nuremberg she’ll be in the courtroom all day and writing all night. You’d never get a spare moment with her. Third, she’d eat you for breakfast.’

  Freya gave an insouciant shrug. ‘Maybe. But I will get to meet her – I have an “in”, you see.’

  ‘Really. And what might that be?’

  ‘My father is Stephen Wyley. He’s been commissioned to do courtroom sketches for the WAAC at Nuremberg. He’ll be in the press gallery with her.’

  Now Jimmy did come to attention. ‘Wyley? I wondered, when I heard your name … He was going to do a portrait of me, years ago, but nothing came of it. Talented feller.’ He paused, remembering, then looked more closely at Freya. ‘This idea of yours – what’s wrong with doing it for Cherwell? Fane said you were a star writer.’

  ‘It’s a good paper,’ she replied, ‘but this story is bigger than Cherwell. And besides, I want to have lots of readers.’

  ‘Don’t we all. I suppose I should applaud your enterprise, though I also think –’

  ‘“What a bloody pest she is,”’ Freya supplied in an unillusioned tone.

  He chuckled, and with his cane gave the floor a meditative tap. ‘I have an old friend at the Chronicle who may be interested –’ he raised a finger to check her excitement, and repeated, ‘may be. His name’s Barry Rusk. I’ll let him know there’s an impudent young pup at Oxford who thinks she might get a scoop on Jessica Vaux. The rest will be up to you.’

  Without being able to stop herself she clapped her hands together. ‘Thank you – really, thank you.’

  He waved away her show of gratitude, but then seemed to be diverted by something over her shoulder. She followed his eyeline to catch Alex skulking in the entrance hall; he had absented himself for the post-event performance. A goatish gleam had brightened Jimmy’s eye.

  ‘That dark-browed Adonis over there. You know him?’

  Freya, exhilarated by
her recent negotiation, called over to Alex, who saw what was afoot and approached slowly. She wondered where he had got to: it was a mysterious habit of his to disappear without warning. She introduced the two of them, sensing a lack of enthusiasm on Alex’s side. He mumbled a few words of appreciation nonetheless.

  ‘So kind,’ Jimmy said, staring candidly at him, ‘but where have they been hiding you all evening?’

  Alex looked shifty, and laughed. ‘I had to nip out for a while.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry we didn’t meet,’ he said, and Freya couldn’t help hearing the warmth of his voice in pointed contrast to his dealings with her.

  ‘Alex is an editor at Cherwell. He gave me my first opening,’ she said.

  Jimmy gave a wicked smirk. ‘Perhaps you might give me one, too.’ At that point Nat poked his head round the door to tell Jimmy that his cab was waiting. The old man leaned towards Alex and said in a confiding tone, ‘You should keep an eye out for this one. She’ll have your job if you’re not careful.’

  Alex, glancing at Freya, again laughed uneasily. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise!’ cried Jimmy. ‘Goodnight to you.’ He was addressing Alex, but almost in afterthought he looked at Freya, and tipped his hat. Then, with Nat holding the door, he waddled off, and out.

  The secret thrill of it was swelling in her chest: it felt as though the Chronicle editor had personally invited her to submit a contribution. But it had to be a secret, for the time being: she didn’t want to set herself up for a fall, and she thought that Alex might be offended if he found out she’d been putting the bite on Jimmy Erskine to advance her career. It might look like she was getting above herself, whereas she felt only an impatience to be getting on.

  Nancy had already gone, obedient to the 11.15 curfew, so Freya had taken the opportunity to have Alex walk her back to Somerville. She had discovered a little-used tradesmen’s door on Walton Street for passing back and forth after hours, and by this means now smuggled him into her rooms. Out of consideration to Ginny, in bed at this hour, she raised a finger to her lips, and their conversation dropped to an undertone. The candle she lit on the chimney piece thickened the furtive mood, throwing butterfly shadows on the wall each time they moved.

  ‘I suppose you found his flirting rather repulsive,’ said Freya, lighting a cigarette and throwing herself on the couch next to him.

  Alex pursed his mouth. ‘I’d hardly call that flirting,’ he said leniently. ‘He was just some old man –’

  ‘– dreaming of handsome young boys,’ laughed Freya, quite aware of her transferring tactic.

  ‘What had you two been talking about?’

  ‘Jessica Vaux mostly. It seems he once knew her. He’d also met my dad.’

  Alex nodded, and with a little giggle said, ‘What did he mean by you “having my job”? Is a Cherwell coup imminent?’

  Freya shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. He was just teasing me – seems to think I’m very pushy.’

  ‘Oh. Are you?’

  She turned to face him, searching his face. ‘When it suits me,’ she said, placing her hand, with infinite lightness, on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat picking up the pace. Alex covered her hand with his own, holding it close, warming it – and then, slowly, regretfully, releasing it. She stared at the hand, returned to her lap, and nodded.

  ‘Ah.’

  Alex seemed to wince at her disappointment. ‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘I thought you might – that you perhaps felt – what I feel about you –’ She stopped, hoping he might jump in, but he didn’t. ‘D’you know what I feel about you?’

  He was still silent, and she suddenly felt a dispiriting little drag on her heart. Had he ever really signalled a romantic interest in her at all?

  ‘Freya, you’re a wonderful girl. Truly, you’re not like anyone else I know –’

  The sincerity in his voice was painful to her. ‘But you’re in love with this girl back home – is that it?’

  He looked away, sighing heavily. He was shaking his head, as though it were a pity beyond all telling. ‘I wish I – I don’t want to mislead you –’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  Alex, who had been looking away, shifted himself to face her. Misery had congested his features. For a long time he said nothing, and she wondered for an absurd moment if he’d forgotten it. ‘Jan. Janet. Please don’t ask me to tell you about her –’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said unhappily. ‘I don’t really want to know. I suppose at least I can stop making a fool of myself –’

  ‘Freya, you’re nobody’s fool,’ he cut in. ‘I mean it. In another life I would – Oh Christ!’

  An anguished silence intervened. Eventually Freya said, ‘Where did you go this evening, by the way?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nowhere in particular. Why?’

  ‘It’s a habit of yours – you just vanish, suddenly, and nobody seems to know where. Did you see a friend?’ She was watching him, and a sudden movement of his head told her she had hit a nerve. The connections were starting to click. ‘You did, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘I think I know what’s happening. You’ve met someone else and you feel guilty.’

  In his stare was weariness yet also, she thought, a glimmer of admiration. He seemed about to say something, but stopped himself.

  ‘So – you’ve got another girl here, in Oxford, and Janet doesn’t know. You can’t bring yourself to tell her –’

  For answer he stood up and retrieved his coat from the chair. She felt a kind of sadness in the way he buttoned up and tied his scarf, though she couldn’t tell if she felt sorry for him or for herself. Standing there, his shadow wavering against the wall, he seemed to radiate loneliness. If only he could be honest with her! He had started towards the door.

  ‘Alex, wait. I’m not angry with you. Just tell me I’m right – about this.’

  When he turned, she could no longer read his expression, though she could hear something cold as ashes in his voice. ‘You have no idea.’

  He left the room without another word.

  9

  ‘That’s a preposterous idea,’ said Stephen, a thin brush poised in his hand, like a conductor about to tap his baton.

  He was standing on a little parallelogram of light that had fallen across the parquet floor at Tite Street. He had been distractedly dabbing away at a canvas while Freya, long legs scissored over an armchair, was laying out her scheme to meet Jessica Vaux at Nuremberg. In the days since she had first conceived it she had assessed the practical nature of her plan and realised, with a dizzying sense of possibility, that it could be done. She had taken the train to London specifically to tell him, and Stephen’s first response had been to laugh. His second, once he realised she wasn’t joking, was to dismiss it as ‘preposterous’. Freya clicked her tongue in annoyance: she hated not being taken seriously.

  ‘Listen, she’s the greatest foreign correspondent of this century. I’ll never have a better chance to interview her, or a more dramatic setting for it. Why would you not want to help me?’

  ‘My wanting or not wanting to help is beside the point. You’re a student, you have exams coming up. How would you explain it to your tutors? “Sorry, just off to Germany for the war trials!” It can’t be done.’

  ‘But it can! I only need to take a week off to do it – I can work around the exams. Dad, please, there’ll never be another opportunity like this, ever – her returning to the country whose doom she predicted. Her escaping from Paris in ’39. The story’s too good to miss.’

  Stephen stood listening, one hand on his hip, slowly shaking his head. ‘From every conceivable angle it’s – What about money? Flying there will cost you. What about identification papers, working permits, letters of recommendation? You know, security in Nuremberg will be so tight you won’t be able to cough without getting a doctor’s note. The whole city is under military rule. How do you propose getting around the place?’

  ‘But that’s ju
st it. I’ll be with you – as long as you’re a legitimate presence there so am I. If it means carrying your paints or brushes or your entire bloody luggage I’ll do it. And I’ll be in uniform – they’re not going to make trouble with an officer from the Wrens.’

  Down below they heard a woman’s light steps on the porch and the front door opening. Freya looked up at Stephen enquiringly.

  ‘Diana,’ he said. ‘She sometimes drops round to make lunch.’

  ‘Oh fucking hell,’ Freya muttered beneath her breath, though loud enough for him to hear. She wondered if she only swore in front of Stephen to remind him of his error in sending her to Tipton: how did he expect her language to be ladylike after that?

  Yet if she was going to pursue this plan she would have to make herself agreeable to him – no sulking, no sniping at the mistress, no swearing. At the sound of the door opening in the hall she marshalled her features into a semblance of graciousness. Diana came breezing into the room and almost reared back at the unexpected sight of her.

  ‘Hullo,’ she called, remaining in her insolent posture across the armchair.

  ‘Freya, hullo!’ Diana said brightly, recovering her composure. She was carrying a brown paper bag, which she held up for inspection. ‘Just bought us some sandwiches – are you peckish?’

  It had been nearly a year since their one meeting, that terrible lunch at Gennaro’s. It had escaped her notice back then that Diana was beautiful. She carried herself with a confidence that seemed lit from within. Where most complexions looked pasty, hers looked creamy. While she busied herself in the kitchen Freya and Stephen resumed their dispute, at a less combative volume.