Free My Real Children by Jo Walton Page B

hungry across Europe on the slow trains, third class. Early one morning, somewhere in France, an old lady shared her coffee and croissants with her. “I don’t know why British people don’t understand food,” she said, knowing nobody would understand her. “I never had food in my life until I came to Europe.” An old man in a Panama hat laughed, and translated her remarks to the others.
    “At least you have food now,” he said, wiping his moustache. He then proceeded to tell her about his adventures in the Resistance until she had to change trains in Paris.
    In Cambridge she was much happier than she had been in Cornwall. There was music, which she had always loved, and there was the Fitzwilliam museum, which could not compare to the Uffizi but was better than nothing. There were student plays and orchestras. She joined two choirs, one sacred and one secular, and enjoyed singing challenging music. She also had the opportunity to row regularly, which she discovered to her surprise that she had missed very much. She went rowing alone early every morning that the weather made it remotely possible. Often she had the river to herself, with no sound but her oars and the wind in the trees. She began to watch birds more seriously, continuing to enjoy the RSPB’s pamphlets but also attending their meetings. She took the train to Ely one Saturday to see the cathedral and watch birds on the marshes.
    The grammar school was excellent and she liked her colleagues. She was no longer the most junior, and the head of department was open to her suggestions for curriculum improvements. The girls were hard-working and keen to improve themselves. She liked the fact that they were from ordinary backgrounds, and that in the new Britain they had every opportunity to go as far as their talent could take them. “As good as any children in the world,” she remembered her father saying, and now she understood what he had meant and told them. She taught Shakespeare and poetry and showed them pictures in her art book, which made her look forward to visiting Italy again. She read everything she could find on Florentine history and the Renaissance.
    That winter, the winter of 1951, Marjorie wrote to her saying that she was going to a meeting in Cambridge and asking if she could stay the night. Patty asked her landlady’s permission and then wrote back cheerfully. She liked her digs. Rationing was finally over, and though food in Britain could still not compare to food in France or Italy, it was not as bad as it had been. Her landlady managed to get chicken for Marjorie’s visit.
    “What’s the meeting?” Patty asked her friend.
    “Oh, it’s a silly thing really. There’s a group of people trying to get people to know their rights. Homosexuals, you know.” Marjorie looked embarrassed. “Somebody knew what happened to me and they asked me to speak at the meeting in Oxford, and I did. What happened to me and Grace—and we hadn’t even done anything! Imagine if we had. People don’t know what’s legal and what isn’t and what the law can do and what the colleges can do. Then they asked me to speak at this meeting in Cambridge. I wouldn’t have been able to except for staying with you, so thank you for that.”
    “I think I’ll come too,” Patty said.
    “Oh really? You wouldn’t want people thinking—I mean, teaching, being with girls?”
    “That’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? But I don’t think anyone would think that, or even know. So many people are homosexual, and everyone knows, but it’s still illegal and they can get into trouble for it if anyone wants to make trouble. It shouldn’t be that way.”
    The meeting was well attended. Marjorie spoke well. The other speaker was a man who explained that the best policy was to keep quiet. “We all know what happened to Wilde, and that is still the law. But as long as we don’t give anybody incontrovertible evidence and keep on denying any allegations, it’s very hard