Free Freya by Anthony Quinn Page B

that?’
    â€˜Well, I suppose because I’d prefer to write it.’
    She knew this was arrogant, and untrue, but sometimes she said things just to know how they would sound out loud. He gave a peeved little laugh and shook his head. ‘I should remember that remark.’
    He had narrowed his eyes at her, sceptically. He seemed about to continue, then thought better of it and rose from the sofa, consulting his watch. ‘Hmm. Since it appears that Miss Daubney has decided not to join us, we should perhaps be getting on.’
    She stared at him. ‘Oh … so you are –’
    â€˜Leo Melvern.
Cold Oblivion
had some excellent reviews, by the way, its title notwithstanding.’
    â€˜I think you’ve played a trick on me.’
    â€˜I don’t see how. You asked if this was Dr Melvern’s room, and I replied in the affirmative. For some reason you assumed that I was – what?’ His tone lightened. ‘I seem to have embarrassed you.’
    She wasn’t embarrassed; she was annoyed by her own gullibility. He looked like a student who was playing at being a tutor, and for some reason that annoyed her, too. For the moment her only consolation was in being at least an inch taller than him. His youthfulness confounded her; he was surely no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven, had barely started shaving, and yet he was already a college fellow with high-ceilinged rooms and lofty manners to boot. She wished she hadn’t talked with such bravado about modern literature; he’d said he would remember that remark of hers, and now she didn’t doubt it. What a twit she must seem!
    She accepted his offer of a sherry, which was cloudy and came in a glass that recalled her dolls’ tea parties as a child. For the next half-hour they talked in general of poetry, and what she knew – not enough, judging by the censorious pauses he left after each reply. Whenever she offered a sally of enthusiasm for something he would stare at her for a moment before squashing it. At one point their talk turned to Kipling, and Freya quoted a few lines from ‘Danny Deever’, which she had always loved.
    Melvern nodded, but with a knitted brow. ‘It has a certain uncouth music, I agree. But doesn’t it really belong in the music hall? It sounds to me more like balladry than poetry.’
    â€˜I don’t see the difference. Ballads are poems, aren’t they?’
    â€˜In a manner of speaking. But I don’t think they can sustain serious academic enquiry – they’re simply for recital.’
    At this point there was a knock, and on Melvern’s barked ‘Enter’ a blonde girl, very pretty, stuck her head round the door. Her cheeks were flushed and she sounded breathless from hurrying. ‘I’m so sorry to be late. Camilla Daubney. I thought this was scheduled for three o’clock tomorrow –’
    â€˜
Did you
indeed?’ Melvern cut in with a cold sneer. ‘You are at this university to read English, Miss Daubney, yet it seems you are unable to make the very simple distinction between Wednesday and Thursday. Hardly promises much, does it?’
    Cowed by this full-bore attack Miss Daubney recoiled visibly, and said ‘No’ in a meek low voice.
    â€˜You’d better sit down,’ he said, still scowling. The girl, her head bowed, folded herself into a corner of the sofa as though she hoped it might consume her. Melvern then reverted to the tone of donnish equability he had been pleased to adopt before the interruption. He pointedly addressed Freya, not deigning even to glance at the latecomer. Another ten excruciating minutes brought their hour to a close.
    Outside, as they crossed the quad, Miss Daubney looked warily over her shoulder, as if to check that Melvern’s evil eye wasn’t following them from his study window.
    â€˜Golly!’ she said in an undertone, her large blue eyes widening in amazement.