Freya by Anthony Quinn Page A

anything they served at hall in Somerville. After the relative bounty that sustained the officers at Plymouth – steaks and butter and real coffee – the return to a civilian diet had been dismal. She had forgotten how disgusting powdered eggs could be.
    â€˜Isn’t it grand to eat proper food once in a while? Even that mutton they were just carving looked nice.’
    â€˜I wonder where they get it all,’ mused Nancy.
    Freya’s mother arched her eyebrows and said softly, ‘The same place most of the restaurants in London get it – the black market.’
    â€˜The last time Nancy and I were in London together we went to Gennaro’s.’
    â€˜Ah, yes, I remember hearing, with your father. And I suppose you had the ice cream?’
    Freya flashed a conspiratorial look across the table. ‘No, I was in the most terrible bait with Dad at the time and I refused it, just out of pride. Of course it didn’t bother
him
at all, so I went without for no reason.’ Drink had made her voluble, and she was happy again. ‘But afterwards I was sulking outside on my own when Nancy showed up – carrying ice creams for both of us! She’d only walked halfway round Soho to find a shop selling them. Now what d’you think of that?’
    Cora smiled across at Nancy. ‘I’d say that’s the loveliest thing a friend ever did.’
    Her voice was lightly amused, but Nancy, not for the first time in the course of lunch, had a stunned look, like someone who had won a prize in a contest she’d not been aware of entering.
    By the time they emerged from the Randolph’s dining room the dreary autumnal weather had closed in; a gauzy mist off the river had submerged the streets and the flagstones were oily underfoot. But her mood was still flying. Nancy had gone, leaving a trail of effusive thank-yous in her wake; Freya accompanied her mother back to the railway station.
    â€˜I feel a bit tipsy,’ Freya admitted.
    â€˜I’m not surprised, darling. You drank the best part of two bottles – and that huge whisky in the bar.’
    Freya linked her arm through her mother’s. ‘What did you think of Nancy?’
    â€˜She’s a dear, isn’t she? Such beautiful eyes –’
    â€˜I know!’ said Freya. ‘That was the first thing I noticed about her.’
    â€˜It’s very sweet …’
    â€˜What is?’
    â€˜To see how besotted she is with you – hanging on your every word.’
    Freya tipped her head slightly. ‘Do you think so?’
    â€˜You should be careful with her. Not everyone’s as robust as you. A tear nearly came to my eye when she talked about her brother dying. “God’s will”, indeed. Poor thing, if
that’s
all she had to console her …’
    Freya, who was more fascinated by Nancy’s Catholicism than she cared to admit, said spontaneously, ‘How terrible to be God. Imagine having the whole world on Your conscience.’
    Cora made a huffing sound – the sound of a stillborn laugh – and said, ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
    As they edged their way through the press of bodies a tune was coming from a gramophone in the next room.
    Freya cupped her hand to Nancy’s ear. ‘I love this song!’
    Nancy pulled an uncertain face. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜It’s “The Sheik of Araby”.’ And she tootled along with an imaginary clarinet, swinging it from side to side to make Nancy laugh.
    They had arrived at the Banbury Road party together, which in the days since the Randolph lunch was how they did most things – afternoon tea in their rooms or in the covered market, evening drinks at the Eagle and Child, bicycling up to Headington Hill, trips to the cinema or the lecture hall. On the previous Sunday morning she had even accompanied Nancy to Mass. For Freya it felt like compensation for the best friend she had