Free Freya by Anthony Quinn Page A

understated ironic tone the tutor began, ‘I’m farming you out, Miss Wyley. You’ll be going to a fellow at Corpus, name of Leo Melvern, very sound. He himself is a published poet, of course.’
    â€˜I’ve never heard of him,’ replied Freya.
    Mrs Bedford blinked at this, and said, ‘Perhaps wiser not to communicate that to him straight away. How are you getting on with – everything?’
    â€˜Pretty well, thanks.’
    â€˜I noticed you walking out of college the other day carrying – if I’m not much mistaken – a pair of boxing gloves. Are you a prizefighter, Miss Wyley?’
    â€˜No, that is, I’ve never got in the ring with anyone. But when I was in the Wrens a man taught me how to punch the bag, and I found I rather enjoyed it.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜It’s good for keeping weight off, too. I couldn’t eat doughnuts and ice cream if I didn’t spar now and then.’
    Mrs Bedford was frowning uncertainly. ‘But surely you could do something less, ah, aggressive – rowing, for instance, or hockey?’
    Freya shook her head. ‘I’m not cut out for team sports, I’m afraid. I become exasperated too easily. With boxing it’s just oneself and the instructor. It’s a bit like learning to dance.’
    â€˜I see. Well, in the meantime I shall arrange for you to go and see Dr Melvern. I dare say he’ll be intrigued to know he has a pugilist to teach. Perhaps he will prepare a
corner
for you. Good day, then.’
    Freya liked old ‘Bedders’ and her sly bantering humour; she wasn’t pompous or abrasive like other dons she had met, and she listened to people as though she were actually interested in what they had to say, a courtesy that Freya had not yet mastered for herself. It wouldn’t hurt to show her appreciation of the old girl by devoting a little more effort to
Beowulf
when it came up next term.
    A few days later the summons came from Leo Melvern at Corpus Christi. His note was typed on vellum paper with the college crest, and appointed the time of their interview with a grave Edwardian formality. Directed up a staircase on the dainty front quad, she found the door to the designated rooms ajar and walked in. A low-lit sitting room had been converted to a study, a wide cliff face of books lowering over an angled desk in the corner. On the sofa sat a delicate pixie-faced youth absorbed in a book, his legs drawn up to his chest. He looked up on Freya’s entrance and gave her a vague nod. Mrs Bedford had told her to expect a tutorial partner, but it hadn’t occurred to her that it would be a male.
    â€˜Is this Dr Melvern’s room?’ she asked him.
    â€˜It is,’ replied the pixie, looking her up and down. He closed his book and stared at her.
    Freya privately marked the boy down: you were supposed to stand up when a lady entered a room. (It was one of her father’s sacred rules.) In the absence of their host she proceeded to wander around. She stopped at the fireplace to peer at the invitation cards crowding the mantelpiece. A framed certificate occupied the wall above.
    â€˜â€œThe Postgate Prize awarded to Leopold Melvern for his collection
Cold Oblivion and Other Poems
,”’ she read aloud. ‘Putting “oblivion” in a title’s rather tempting fate, isn’t it?’
    The youth on the sofa wrinkled his nose. ‘D’you know the book?’ His voice was flat and adenoidal.
    â€˜No. I don’t read modern poetry. It gives me a headache.’
    â€˜What, all of it?’
    She pursed her mouth consideringly. ‘Bits of Auden I like. And Louis MacNeice.
Autumn Journal
is very good.’
    The youth brooded on this for a moment, then said, ‘What about modern novels?’
    Freya gave her most insouciant shrug. ‘Greene I admire. But I don’t feel the urge to study modern literature.’
    â€˜Why’s