Her Frozen Heart

by Lulu Taylor

‘I’m worried you’re lonely. Have you contacted that friend you told me about?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  ‘Maura, I’m okay, I promise.’

  ‘I’ll come to see you soon. All right?’

  ‘Yes. Please do. We’ve settled in very well since you were last here.’

  But she didn’t really want Maura to visit. She had fallen into a quiet routine of solitude that she found comforting. In the morning, she tidied and shopped, and in the afternoon, she wandered through the streets of Oxford, walking past old haunts and noticing what had gone and what was still there. She drank coffee in the Queen’s Coffee House on the High Street, and watched students come in armed with laptops and mobiles, groggy with hangovers or studiously intense, some of them mooning over each other, others in friendship gaggles, and she thought of her own student days. No laptops then, or very few. She remembered how, in their first year, she and Sara would come here and watch the door of University College opposite, hoping to see a boy Caitlyn had had a crush on. One night, they’d blagged their way into the college bar and he’d been there. Sara had made her go and talk to him, and at the end of the night, he’d walked her back to college and kissed her by the gates. They’d gone out for a week or two. But she’d introduced him to Sara, and then somehow he’d ended up going out with her instead . . .

  Oh yes. I’d forgotten about that.

  Sara quickly lost interest in him, as she always did, but when Caitlyn found another boyfriend – sweet, silly Charlie – she’d not introduced him to Sara. Just in case.

  I forgave her, though. I always did.

  She thought about it as she walked around Oxford, passing the hours until it was time to go and get Max from school. She walked the familiar route from the middle of town to the faculty, feeling herself crossing her old paths, and wondering what her eighteen-year-old self would make of this older, sadder person treading the same pavements and crossing roads at the same places. The students looked so terribly young, fearless in their ignorance of the future. She envied and pitied them simultaneously.

  Sitting outside the faculty on one of the benches, she remembered how she and Sara used to sit here after a morning’s work, deciding what to do with the rest of their day. There was usually something interesting going on, and if there wasn’t, they could easily laze away an afternoon in one of their rooms, listening to music, talking endlessly, making plans for the evening. There was no shortage of activity. Sara would always have a clutch of invitations. They arrived in her pigeon hole in the porter’s lodge, some from complete strangers asking her to parties and dinners.

  ‘But they don’t even know you!’ Caitlyn would say, astonished at yet another card from an unknown student. ‘Why do they invite you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sara tossed back her hair and shrugged, completely unsurprised. Once she said, ‘I think they look at the fresher photos in the photographer’s shop.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes, they send invitations to new students they like the look of. Or they ask who you are when they see you round town. You know how it is. They all come crawling out of the woodwork.’

  Caitlyn didn’t know. It was all news to her. But she began to realise the power of beauty and its strange effect on men. It was clearly a prize. It made Sara valuable in a way other women were not. But why did it give men the courage to chance their arm with Sara, when it must be obvious to both parties that it was only Sara’s outward appearance that drew them to her? It was nothing to do with her personality, wit or charm, but only how she looked. Caitlyn thought that even while it must be flattering, it was also a little insulting.

  Or perhaps I’m jealous. I must be jealous in some way.

  She didn’t feel jealous of Sara, although she did wonder what it must be like to go through life so looked at. It must be like being born royal, or becoming famous, the way all eyes turned and followed Sara wherever she went. She knew it and was used to it, and had a certain way of holding herself in public, and an expression she adopted when she was out: a slight smile, a dreamy gaze that meant she could look disconnected while remaining highly aware of how many people were watching her.

  No, Caitlyn wasn’t jealous, but she was curious, fascinated by the power Sara wielded. Sara was quite used to finding flattering notes and poems in her pigeon hole, or stuck to her door. She was familiar with men coming up to murmur admiring comments whenever she was out, or the constant tooting of horns when she walked by the road. She was accustomed to finding bouquets outside her room or left in the lodge for her, and rarely bought herself dinner or drinks. She never said anything but it was unspoken between them that it happened to Sara and it didn’t happen to Caitlyn, who had her admirers, but not in the magnetic, all-encompassing way that Sara did. Men liked her, but they liked her blue eyes, or her smile, or the way she chattered and joked. They didn’t go weak at the knees when she walked into a room, even when she’d taken the trouble to blow-dry her usually straight hair into light brown waves and put on make-up and high heels.

  Perhaps I ought to be more jealous.

  And yet she wasn’t, because she felt sorry for Sara, and vaguely protective. Sara’s beauty also made her vulnerable. It seemed to give men the right to think they could approach her, talk to her in crude terms, show their appreciation in any way they chose. She was never left alone, wherever she went. Men appeared to assume that she craved their attention, as though it were a gift they were bestowing on her, and she must like having her conversation interrupted by a stranger. ‘Sorry for coming over, I just had to say something – you’ve got the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.’ Then they would smile moonily at her, as though expecting her to gasp and swoon at their compliment, as if she’d never heard that before, and fall into their arms. Some were sweet and well meaning, evidently having gathered their courage to approach. But other men could be predatory and strangely possessive. They acted as though Sara owed them something by being so attractive, as though she was an item waiting to be claimed. They treated her beauty like a provocative act carried out on purpose by her in order to stimulate them – and if she refused them, she was somehow cheating them. They could be angry, even vicious, if they were repelled.

  And then there were the women. Sara had so few friends. It was part of what had drawn Caitlyn to her; she actually felt sorry for her because so many women disliked her on sight. She could see at once, from the first day of term, that Sara was having trouble fitting in. The men were too dazzled to be her friends, though a few of the gay ones were keen to get to know her. And a lot of the women just steered well clear, as though reluctant to spend too much time standing next to Sara’s shining, perfect beauty. Others were nakedly hostile, even if they’d never spoken to Sara. That seemed just as unfair as men adoring her without knowing her.

  But it wasn’t just the way Sara seemed to be held hostage by her looks, Caitlyn thought. It was something else. It was what they did to her. What they turned her into. How they hurt her. And she never saw it.

  She got up from the sun-warmed bench and started to walk back towards the centre of town.

  But I saw it. I saw how, gradually, she let it destroy her.

  Chapter Ten

  The snow came in the night, just as Fred had predicted, and Kings Harcourt was immediately cut off. The children were thrilled to wake to a world of huge white drifts almost covering the hedges entirely. The lane was deep in snow and there was a strange muffled quality to the air.

  ‘We haven’t seen snow like this for a long time,’ Tommy said, gazing out at it from the dining room. She had made the breakfast that morning as Ada hadn’t been able to get to the house. Tommy was glad she had insisted on all the woodpiles being restocked the previous day, and all coal buckets filled. But she hadn’t liked the state of the coal bunker, which was worryingly empty. She looked at Antonia and Harry. ‘I don’t think you’ll be going to school for a while.’

  ‘Hooray!’ they shouted.
‘No school!’

  ‘You need lessons, you ignoramuses.’

  Gerry looked up from her book. ‘I’ll teach the little darlings.’ She gave them a sickly smile. ‘Lots of lovely spellings and dictations and punctuation tests. I shall enjoy that.’

  The children booed loudly.

  Tommy said, ‘I think that sounds like a good idea. You can go out and play in the snow for some exercise and then come back and have some lessons.’

  Fred spoke up. ‘I can do a little teaching if you like. I can rustle up some French grammar exercises. Make Harry run through his Latin declensions.’

  ‘I’m not doing Latin yet,’ Harry said quickly.

  ‘Then you’d better start.’

  Roger said, ‘Fred will be an excellent teacher, Harry. You’ll enjoy doing some Latin with him.’

  Fred said, ‘Antonia too, of course.’

  Tommy looked at him, pleased. ‘What a good idea. I always wanted to learn Latin and no one ever offered to teach me.’

  Fred smiled. ‘Then you should learn too. Lessons are in order. This afternoon is our first one.’

  Tommy laughed disbelievingly. ‘What? Me? I’m far too old.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Come and learn.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Tommy blinked at him, surprised. Then she said, ‘All right then. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Me too,’ Gerry said bouncily. ‘Count me in. I’ll set up the morning room as our schoolroom.’

  Roger rolled his eyes and reached for more toast. ‘Poor you, Fred. You’re a braver man than I.’

  They all went out to play in the snow after breakfast, then assembled after lunch for their first Latin lesson. Fred met them in the morning room, with neatly handwritten sheets to pass around. His pupils sat down with trays on their laps, paper and pencils.

  Tommy examined the sheet she was handed. It was headed The First Conjugation.

  ‘Now, we’re going to start with verbs in the present tense. In this case, the first conjugation ends in -are. The verb we’ll look at is labare, to work. Our word “labour” comes from it, of course. See the endings below – you take the stem and add an ending to conjugate the verb. I work, you work, he works . . .’

  Everyone listened intently as Fred stood in front of the fireplace and taught them. The lesson was only an hour but it went by in a flash, and Fred told them their prep would be to learn the endings they’d looked at that day.

  That evening the temperature seemed to fall even further. Before dinner, after the children had had their tea, they all pulled chairs around the fire in the drawing room, the curtains shut tight to prevent the draughts from the leaded windows, and the children and Gerry played cards while the others read and Tommy sewed. Eventually she said, ‘Bedtime, please, children.’

  They both wailed, and protested that it was far too cold to go to bed.

  ‘You must have a bath to get warm,’ Tommy said, ‘and I’ll put hot water bottles in your beds to make them nice and cosy.’ She put down her sewing. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Fred said, closing his book and getting up. ‘Let me do the bottles while you do the bath.’

  ‘All right,’ Tommy said, surprised but grateful. ‘Come on, chop, chop, you two. Antonia, run and start the bath, will you? Just a small one, mind, only to the mark on the side of the tub.’

  When the children were tucked up with their light off after a story, Fred and Tommy met on the landing. Fred looked solemn. ‘It really is jolly cold in their bedroom, you know.’

  ‘I thought the same. But we can’t have fires in the bedrooms, there isn’t enough coal. We can’t heat the house very well, the system is awful.’ She bit her lip with anxiety. ‘Do you think they’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. They’re warm now, and they’ve got plenty of blankets. But is it going to be tricky, if it stays this cold? What is the situation with fuel?’

  Tommy put her arms around herself, and shivered slightly. Her coat was downstairs, left in the drawing room, and now she was cold. Fred was warmly dressed in thick tweed trousers, a shirt, jumper and jacket but even so, his hands were white and his face had the greyish tinge of chill. ‘The coal ration is due any day now. I applied for it ages ago.’

  ‘But we’re snowed in. How will they reach us?’

  ‘If it doesn’t snow again, we’ll be clear in a day or two. We’ve often been cut off in the past. People find a way in and out rather quickly, you’d be surprised.’

  ‘Then let’s hope it holds off.’ Fred looked suddenly a little awkward. ‘And I fear it means you’re stuck with me for a while.’

  ‘Well.’ Tommy turned to go back downstairs. ‘You’re earning your keep in the schoolroom now, aren’t you? So it’s all quits!’

  It didn’t snow the following day, and the tractors were out ploughing through the drifts and clearing the roads. But it took two days for them to make the road to Kings Harcourt passable.

  In the meantime, they continued their lessons. Harry and Antonia had French and English with Gerry in the morning and after lunch there was Maths and Latin with Fred. Tommy skipped the Maths but she was keen to keep up with the Latin. At their third lesson, Fred propped up a large drawing pad on which he’d painted pictures of a small Roman boy, going about his everyday life, and underneath were simple Latin sentences.

  ‘No textbooks, I’m afraid,’ he explained, ‘so I’ve improvised.’ He pointed to an illustration. ‘This is Quintus. You see? Ecce Quintus. Quintus laborat in agricolum. Who can tell me what that means?’

  ‘This is Quintus. Quintus works in the fields,’ Gerry said quickly.

  Fred nodded. ‘Very good. You might have to hold back a little, Gerry. I can see you’re getting it fast but let’s give the others a chance. Harry, why is it agricolum? Think about the nouns we’ve been looking at.’

  ‘It’s a first declension noun that goes like puella. It ends in -um so that’s in the accusative,’ Harry said, ‘because it’s the object, not the subject.’

  ‘Excellent. You’re quite right.’ Fred gave him an encouraging nod. ‘Well done. Now, Antonia. Your turn.’

  After the lesson, Tommy lingered in the morning room as Fred tidied up his things. ‘What a lot of effort you’ve gone to for us,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s not much trouble, really, when you’re all doing so much for me. Besides.’ He took down his drawing pad and folded back the sheets of paper. ‘It was rather nice to use my brain again. My Latin is rusty but I found an old grammar in the library to help me remember it all. And as for Quintus and his friends—’

  ‘And his canus,’ put in Tommy brightly.

  ‘Let’s not forget his canus, Fido. A man’s best friend,’ Fred said gravely, which made her laugh. ‘I’ve enjoyed coming up with his adventures.’

  ‘Your pictures are wonderful. I don’t care what you say, it’s obvious you’re talented.’

  ‘Well . . . in the most modest way imaginable. Have you had a think about my idea?’

  ‘Yes, I have, if you mean copying Venetia. I’m sorry I haven’t mentioned it but I really don’t know if it can or should be done.’

  He leaned back against the table and looked serious. ‘I know it sounds absurd but my feeling is that if you can get yourself a bulwark of cash, you should. I don’t think Roger is well. He may need some care if he gets much worse.’

  ‘He’s ill?’ Tommy exclaimed, shocked. Roger had joined in the children’s snowball fights with some enthusiasm, and she’d been cheered by the sight of him full of energy and laughter. ‘I thought he was getting better.’

  ‘In his body, he’s recovering well and getting fitter. But he’s not as whole as I should like in his mind. He seems tormented by something, but he’s not able to talk about it.’ He put out a hand to her, resting it on the soft fur of her coat. ‘Please don’t worry too much. I’m only thinking of the worst happening. I hope he’ll find the peace here helps him to recover. I know it’s helping me.’

  ‘You s
eem so well,’ Tommy said softly. ‘I keep forgetting you’re not recovered either.’

  ‘I’m healing all the time.’ He smiled at her, and she felt suddenly and unexpectedly bashful. He took his hand from her arm and she started awkwardly.

  ‘Well, you know, if you think it would be fun, then why not try a copy of the painting? It can’t do any harm to have a go.’ Tommy knew she was talking too loudly and too fast, to detract from her embarrassment and the heat on her cheeks. ‘I’m not sure how you’ll hide it from everyone, though.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ Fred said, seemingly oblivious to her blush. ‘There’s no need to hide it. I’ll just say I’m making a copy for my own amusement.’

  ‘Yes. That’s a good idea.’

  ‘But first I shall need to go to Oxford, to get all the equipment. I know an excellent art shop. And I’ll make an appointment to get my wound checked as well. I think it’s healing all right, but it’s as well to be on the safe side.’ He smiled at her and a pleasant warmth stole over her skin.

  ‘I’ll ask the postman if the trains are running, once he gets through tomorrow. It’s not a long journey but it will be easier by train. I’ll come along with you, if you don’t mind. I need to do some shopping and I could do with getting out.’

  Fred smiled. ‘I should like that very much.’

  ‘Oh good. So should I.’ Tommy found herself staring at the pattern on the carpet, and then she heard the bell echoing through the house. ‘There – it’s tea. We must go quickly. You know how Ada hates it when we’re late.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The early summer sun fell brightly through the sitting room windows. Caitlyn was drafting an email to her old friend Nicholas.

  Hi, do you remember me? It’s Caitlyn Collins. I see that you’re a professor now, that’s so impressive. I’ve just moved to Oxford and wondered if . . .

  She read it over and deleted it. What do I really want to say? You used to be my friend and I could really use a friend right now. And you knew me and Sara when we were just beginning, and I want to know what other people thought of her, if I got her right or not . . .