Freya

by Anthony Quinn

  Freya smiled. ‘I remember you telling me. Wasn’t it – “Dear boy, are you a votary of Greek love?”’

  Nat yelped with laughter. ‘Bravo, you’re quite right! I must preserve that one. Jimmy … first lion of the theatre I ever interviewed.’

  ‘Not still writing, is he?’

  ‘Writing? – I think not. Last time I saw him at the Garrick he was hardly walking. A mangy old lion now, I’m afraid.’

  He accompanied her out via the building’s back entrance on Vigo Street, where they performed a little minuet of parting. They would meet again, he said, once the TV people had set up his interview with Chrissie Effingham. As they kissed one another goodbye he was still laughing about ‘Greek love’.

  Progress at the Journal was making her impatient. When she accepted the job of feature writer she had laid down a marker about introducing a women’s page. The editor had agreed to raise the idea among the management, but since her arrival there had been no mention of it. She also couldn’t help noticing that the best stories were automatically handed to men; women staffers, outnumbered on the paper five to one, were confined to lighter features on society weddings, household questions and the latest beauty products – none of which she cared a rap for.

  Having bided her time she arranged a meeting with Ivan Brock, an editor of the old school who had worked his way up from provincial newspapers. He had spent most of his life among men – public school, university, army – though in person he was less chauvinist than some of his contemporaries. On arriving at his office she found him ensconced with his deputy, Frank Mogg, and Simon Standish, whom she had so far managed to ignore. She assumed that these two would clear off so that she and Brock could talk in private, but as she took a seat neither of them showed any sign of budging. It occurred to her that Brock felt safer with them in the room.

  ‘Now I hope this isn’t a meeting to negotiate money,’ the editor quipped, ‘because you’re already making a sight more than the others out there.’

  Freya happened to know this wasn’t true, but she had decided to choose her battles. She shook her head and smiled like a good sport.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d come to a decision about the women’s page. You know a couple of our rivals have already got one.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, we have discussed this at management meetings, and the competition has been noted –’ He halted, as though he had already made an important concession. He rested his chin on his fist, and looked around the room.

  ‘What sort of things do you propose to discuss on a “women’s page”?’ asked Frank Mogg, pronouncing the last two words as if they might be an exotic fruit.

  Freya realised she’d save time by spelling it out. ‘Well, we’d address a range of matters that concern women today. For instance, working mothers – the difficulty of keeping a house and doing a job. Also, unmarried mothers, or women who have to deal with violent men, or mothers trapped at home with small children while their husbands are out at work –’

  ‘Aren’t there weekly magazines for that sort of thing?’ he asked. ‘I mean, we’re the Journal, not Woman’s Journal.’

  Freya stared at him. ‘Those magazines take a very old-fashioned line on a woman’s place in the world. They’re just coffee-morning supplements with recipes and gossip about the royal family. But there really are women who want more out of life than tips on how to keep a husband happy or the best way to clean an oven.’

  Standish cleared his throat. ‘Sounds like useful stuff to me. I wish my missus would read pieces about how to keep her husband happy.’

  There was some knowing laughter. Freya gave no indication of having heard him; she didn’t even look in his direction.

  Brock shook his head, saying, ‘Problem is, Freya, we’ve only got so many pages at our disposal. News has to be the priority. Then there’s the editorial, the letters page, advertising, sport, TV and radio – there’s not much room left for housewives’ choice –’

  ‘I heard they were about to increase the number of pages.’

  ‘Don’t know where you got that from.’

  ‘Anyway, this isn’t just about housewives. I want a page for women who have jobs, women who are out in the world, like men –’

  ‘Career girls,’ Mogg supplied.

  ‘Whatever you want to call them. You must understand – there are women who’d like to be judged on something other than how to run a house. And would prefer not to be beholden to men.’

  ‘Have you got something against men?’

  ‘No. Only the bastards who’ve wronged me.’

  Standish, stifling a laugh, said, ‘Freya’s always been a bit of a spitfire. We’ve had our little differences, haven’t we?’

  She glanced at him now. His attempt at chumminess was detestable, but she kept her tone cool. ‘If you’re referring to the last time we spoke, I’d say it was more than a “little difference”.’

  He turned to address Mogg and Brock. ‘When I was editor at the Envoy Freya took me to task for a scoop we ran on that fellow McAndrew at the MoD –’

  ‘– who was subsequently proven innocent of the charge but went to prison anyway for being queer. It was a disgraceful story that destroyed a man’s life. I resigned, because I was ashamed to work for such a paper.’

  ‘What she fails to mention is the fact she knew McAndrew personally and tried to withhold information about his activities. Robert Cosway got hold of it anyway and we broke it the next day. Eight years – long time to bear a grudge.’

  ‘Easier than you think where a fucking arsehole’s concerned –’

  ‘Whoa, that’s enough of that,’ said Brock, rising from his chair. ‘Keep it for the public bar. Gents, would you mind stepping outside a moment?’ He was staring at Freya with pained disapproval. Standish and Mogg slouched out of the room.

  Brock composed himself for a moment. ‘I’m a fairly broad-minded sort, but I do draw the line at certain things – a woman swearing is one of them. It sounds common. There’s no excuse for it.’

  She could hardly believe her ears. ‘What about men swearing?’

  ‘I don’t much care for that, either, but they can be excused their rough language – it’s a product of the parade ground and the sports field. Many are of a generation that came through the war –’

  ‘I came through the war, too. I was in the Wrens.’

  He blinked in surprise; it was apparent he had underestimated her.

  ‘I have to ask you something, Freya – are you unhappy here?’

  ‘No. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Well, I sense that you’re frustrated by the people, and by the work being offered to you. I’m sorry that we can’t yet accommodate a ladies’ – a women’s page, but that shouldn’t be a cause for despair.’

  ‘It’s not just that,’ said Freya. ‘I keep suggesting ideas that either get shelved or get nabbed. For instance, a few weeks ago I asked if I could write about high-rise buildings and their effect on people who’ve been moved there. Mogg said no, then I see that very piece in the paper – by a man. I told the literary editor about the new Doris Lessing novel; he hadn’t heard of it but said he’d make enquiries. A bit later I find out that he’d just commissioned a review – by a man. There’s a pattern here. Anything juicy or interesting gets assigned to the blokes. Why? I’m at least as good as they are, and in quite a few instances better.’

  Brock looked half hypnotised by this show of self-belief, and Freya wondered if he might be thinking he’d made a mistake in hiring her: a woman who fought her corner was possibly a headache he didn’t need.

  ‘What are you working on at present?’ he asked, after a pause.

  ‘Oh, a piece about the new cult craze for youth. I’m chasing a possible interview with Chrissie Effingham. The model?’

  ‘Yes, I know who she is. That would be a good story. I’ll make sure nobody takes it off you.’

  Freya realised he was trying to be conciliatory, and forced herself to say ‘Thank you’. But she
didn’t feel grateful, she felt indignant about being undervalued.

  She was on her way out of his office when Brock said, casually, ‘So you worked with Robert Cosway?’

  She nodded. ‘Briefly. We knew one another from university.’

  ‘I met him the other night for the first time. Very bright fellow. My wife and I were introduced and found him charming …’ He continued in this vein for a while, expressing his admiration of Cosway’s stance on immigration and his timely attack upon the racialist right. When Freya said nothing he looked at her searchingly. ‘Do you, um, have a view on him?’

  Freya considered for a moment. ‘I do, as a matter of fact. But given what you think of women who swear you’d probably rather I kept it to myself.’

  She gave him a cursory nod and left the room without another word.

  25

  She crossed Canonbury Square in a mid-morning lull, the pavement damp from the night’s rain. From somewhere not very distant came the echoing clank and grind of building work. The doctor’s surgery on St Paul’s Road was an early-Victorian terrace of shabby grey stucco. She was fed up with feeling tired for no reason and had telephoned for an appointment. She had told herself there was no reason; yet her heart was beating thickly, as if her body were trying to communicate some urgent message that her mind continued to block.

  In the waiting room the air was solid with some cloying, tarry medication. A couple of old men, blank-faced and flat-capped, sat in stoical silence. They looked scraped dry of hope, and even of expectation. A young mother in the corner dandled a child whose burbling monologue poured out indecipherably. While she waited Freya leafed through a copy of Punch and marvelled at its consistently feeble cartoons. She supposed they put the magazine in doctors’ waiting rooms to make whatever happened when you were in the next room comparatively amusing. When her name was called by the receptionist she felt embarrassed for a moment that she had got the nod ahead of the two old boys. But if they thought her a queue-jumper they gave no sign of resentment.

  The GP was a fiftyish bespectacled man with an aquiline nose, large bony hands and an unsmiling demeanour. He wore a dark three-piece suit and a raffish paisley tie which she imagined had been bought for him by his wife. He was writing on a pad with a fountain pen and didn’t look up as he invited her to take a seat. He continued scratching away for a minute or more, until she was almost moved to lean over and peek at whatever was occupying him.

  Finally he faced her and introduced himself as Dr Maybury. He took down her details in an uninterested manner and then leaned back in his chair.

  ‘And what seems to be the problem?’

  She started to explain her tiredness, glancing at him now and then, though his impassive expression didn’t change.

  ‘How are you sleeping?’ he asked after a pause.

  ‘Not well. Some mornings I lie in bed wondering if I’ve actually been asleep at all. By late afternoon I’m yawning.’

  ‘Might it be to do with your change of circumstances?’

  ‘Possibly. From my bedroom I can hear the traffic on Upper Street; it sometimes keeps me awake. But then my apartment in Rome was quite noisy, too …’

  ‘Do you eat properly? You look somewhat underweight.’

  ‘I’ve always been quite skinny – it runs in the family. I just eat when I’m hungry, like most people.’

  ‘That isn’t a tenable generalisation,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Do you drink? Smoke?’

  ‘Both.’

  He nodded. ‘Have you noticed any discomfort of late? Stomach pains, constipation, feelings of nausea?’

  She considered for a moment. ‘I’ve had slight stomach cramps now and then. Nothing very painful.’

  He asked her to lie on the raised couch. ‘May I …?’ He felt her stomach, and then examined her eyes, pulling down the lower lids. ‘I wonder if you’re anaemic. That can often cause tiredness.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘You’re … thirty-seven. Do you have regular periods?’

  Sitting up on the couch, she shook her head. ‘Fairly irregular. It’s always been that way. I suppose my last was … two or three months ago.’

  ‘Do you have –’ he began, and seemed to reverse from the question he intended to ask. ‘Have you considered the possibility that you may be pregnant?’

  She gave a half-laugh. ‘I did – for a couple of seconds. But I’m absolutely certain that I’m not.’

  ‘I see. So you’ve not had sexual relations in some time?’

  She frowned at him humorously. ‘I didn’t say that. I had a relationship, off and on, for a few months. It ended last year. But we had sex quite regularly.’

  She waited for an answering note of disapproval, but Maybury’s voice remained level, unhurried. He wanted to know if she had taken ‘precautions’, and she nodded. In her head she was making some quick calculations as to timing; she had never kept a diary, so she couldn’t be accurate beyond a doubt.

  It seemed that he had been calculating, too. ‘So … as best you can remember, you’ve menstruated since the last time you had …’

  ‘Yes. Which is why it’s impossible that I should be pregnant.’

  He stared at her briefly, his expression ambiguous, unsettling. She got down off the couch. He held out her coat, meaning to help her into it, but she took it instead and folded it across her arm.

  ‘I’m going to send you for a blood test. You may have a touch of anaemia. I’d also like to check for pregnancy –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The chances are negligible, but one has to make sure. You understand. My secretary will arrange an appointment for you at the hospital – it’s just up the Holloway Road.’

  She felt a prickle of irritation. ‘Is that really necessary? Couldn’t you just give me a prescription for sleeping pills?’

  ‘Miss Wyley, I hope you’re not presuming to tell me my job.’

  ‘No, but let me tell you about mine. It involves long demanding hours –’

  ‘I’m sure you’re very busy. In the meantime, try to get some proper rest, and eat healthily. I know you journalists all like to booze, but you might think about cutting down. That would be one way of improving your chances of a good night’s sleep.’

  Freya lifted her chin in seeming compliance, while privately dismissing his advice as a waste of time. She had lived through a war, through rationing: proof enough of her hardiness. She was nearly out of the door when he handed her a small plastic bottle.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘For a urine sample – they’ll need one at the hospital.’

  ‘Like they haven’t got enough piss there already,’ she almost said, but didn’t.

  She took her visitor’s pass from the man at the gate and parked the car. It was her first sight of Television Centre, its gigantic cellular crescent of brick and glass part spacecraft docking station, part Soviet mental hospital. In the foyer she was directed upwards to the recording studio and wafted along an interminable curving corridor. She spotted a couple of bright young dolly birds heading somewhere and on an instinct followed them. Blatting through swing doors they led her into the stuffy, cavernous semi-hush of the studio, its floor a sea of tangled cords and leads, its ceiling clogged with a gantry of dazzling spotlights. She picked her way past camera operators and technicians towards the wings, where a seated figure, pale and languid, was watching her.

  ‘Darling!’ called Nat, his neck encircled by a white ruff of tissue paper while a girl attended to his make-up. She hadn’t seen him wearing so much slap since Oxford. He sent the girl off with a nod, and invited Freya to take a high stool opposite his own perch. ‘Welcome to the pleasure dome,’ he said drily. ‘What do you think of this place?’

  She made a comic grimace. ‘It’s rather … Orwellish, isn’t it?’

  Nat sniggered. ‘Yes, we’ll be serving Victory gin after the show. In the meantime let’s have some tea.’ He sang out his request to a passing minion, whose obedient ‘Straight away, Mr Fane’ made Freya smile. She rak
ed her gaze around the place.

  ‘Isn’t there an audience?’

  ‘Not for this. Though there’s the court of Effingham – wherever Chrissie goes, they go.’ Her eyes followed his to a little knot of gabbling youths, the girls in tight miniskirts and thigh boots, their hair teased into tottering beehives, and a couple of older, floppy-fringed men in suits and ties. She was wondering where their queen was when a fawn-like figure emerged from the shadows. Chrissie, freshly primped from make-up, had the self-conscious, pigeon-toed gait of a tutored novice. With the exception of her chest, she was vanishingly slight, her bony frame accentuated by the long-sleeved Mary Quant dress that finished just above her knee. It was a look Freya had been noticing since her return, the waif whose legacy of malnutrition during the ration-book years was skinny limbs and plaintive saucer eyes. She quietly remarked on it to Nat.

  ‘Then it was worth starving for,’ he replied. ‘That look’s making her a fortune.’ His face became abruptly animated as the subject of their whispers approached.

  ‘Hullo, Nat,’ she said. Nat took her extended hand and planted a reverential kiss on it.

  ‘Chrissie, you ravishing creature! Ready for your close-up? Let me introduce you to one of my dearest friends, Freya Wyley.’

  ‘Hullo, Freya,’ she said with reflexive politeness and the shy smile Freya remembered from the restaurant. ‘I do love your hair.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve thought of having mine short, actually.’ She brushed her dark fringe from her eyes. The girl’s voice hadn’t been trained as rigorously as her walk; her south London roots poked from under the thin crust of RP.

  ‘Not likely, sweetheart,’ interposed one of the suited men, stroking her long hair with proprietary entitlement. He was staring now at Nat and Freya. ‘Bruce Haddon. I’m Chrissie’s manager.’

  They shook hands, and Haddon began to reel off his ‘ideas’ about the way he wanted the interview to proceed. He was cocksure, fussy, emphatic, and not half as clever as he imagined. He was still talking when Nat, who had listened with the half-amused, half-mystified smile of someone watching a monkey juggling golf balls, cut him short.