John Pritchard - Dark Ages

Well, not much.

She’d signed herself in at Christ Church, unable to stop smiling. The college had entranced her from the start: a citadel of honey-coloured stone. Exploring, she’d found shady cloisters, quiet little nooks. A maze of spires and ivy. It was like an old-world castle in some fantasy she’d read. But this time it was real, and she was here. Little Frannie Bennett, from Up North. Her accent was soft, but she’d broadened it when posher ones cropped up. I went to a comprehensive, but I’m just as good as you.

Her spacious study bedroom overlooked an inner quad. Halfway through unpacking, she’d sat on the bed, and started taking stock. Still high on her excitement, she felt a little awed as well: belittled by the splendour of the place. She was suddenly grown up, and on her own. In Oxford – hours from home. No turning back now. The thought upset her buoyancy somewhat.

The first thing you should unpack is your kettle , Mum had said. Fran did so – and her mug and coffee too.

Lynette, meanwhile, was moving in next door.

Fran’s mum and dad had seen her off at the station, but Lyn’s had driven down here. There was lots of to-ing and fro-ing; the mother sounding anxious, the father more laid-back. Fran had the impression they were pretty well-to-do.

‘Oh Mummy, please don’t fuss,’ was Lyn’s first plaintive contribution.

She was hovering in the corridor when Fran peered out: awkwardly aloof, as if watching someone else’s room being furnished. She looked tired and rather miserable already. Someone else whose heady day might yet end in tears.

‘Can I offer you a coffee?’ Fran asked.

The girl’s smile was so grateful that it forged a bond at once. Posh though she was, her face was naturally friendly; her toffee-coloured eyes were warm and soft. Fran beckoned her in, and made another mug.

They swapped details like the schoolgirls they’d so recently been: Fran sitting cross-legged on her strange new bed; her first guest perched politely on the chair. Lyn was from Coventry, and had come here to read History; her father was a professor in the subject. Fran, who lived in Derbyshire, was doing French and German. Listening to Lyn talk – each consonant impeccably pronounced – she couldn’t help but feel a little distanced. Yet the other’s well-bred poise offset a shyness that she warmed to; a niceness that she couldn’t help but like.

‘You’re sure you’ll be all right, Lyn, darling?’ her mother asked from the doorway. The smile she offered Fran was gracious enough, but Fran had felt herself assessed, the woman clearly wondering who her daughter would fall in with, once free of the parental gaze.

‘Quite sure, Mummy. Thanks ever so much for everything …’ On which sweet note she saw them firmly to the car.

‘Fancy a wander?’ Fran asked, when she came back; and out they’d gone together, looking round the mellow college buildings, before meandering down onto Christ Church Meadow. Back to the Hall for a welcoming communal dinner; then coffee in Lyn’s room, the window open wide on the Oxfordshire dusk. Their friendship put its roots into that balmy autumn evening, and blossomed through the busy weeks ahead. By the end of that first short term, they might have known each other years: sharing secrets, clothes and sound advice. Fran and Lyn, inseparable as sisters.

3

‘Remember that time we hired a punt?’ Lyn asked her, smiling: drawing her gently back towards the past.

‘God, yes. Frannie and Lyn Go Boating. And wasn’t that a bloody disaster … ?’ But she was smiling herself, recalling how that afternoon had gone: a piece of farce so perfect that they’d ended up quite helpless with the giggles (though without a pole). And underpinning it, the river’s calm, the spires that gleamed with sunlight on the skyline; a clocktower chiming three …

‘Why don’t you take those sunglasses off?’ Lyn said, making a mischievous face, in case Fran took it the wrong way. ‘People will think you’re a spy or something …’

Fran stared at her for a moment; sensed a flicker of unease behind her friend’s determined smile. Then, slowly, she reached up and took her shades off. They were the pair she’d always used to wear: cheap wraparound black plastic. Her mocking, mock defence against being photographed and filmed. No laughing matter now, though; she hardly ventured out without them. They filtered the day – made it colourless and safe. Their lenses were anonymous, a mask.

The coffee bar grew brighter; Lyn watched her, looking anxious. And how must I look? Fran thought. She knew how she felt: as if she’d pulled her knickers down in public. That helpless; that exposed.

But she placed them on the tabletop, beside her sipped-at cup, and clasped her hands upon them. She didn’t need a mirror to see the paleness of her face, the vulnerable depths of her wide green eyes. She could read all that from Lyn’s concerned expression.

Go on , she thought, just tell me I’ve lost weight . She’d always been a slender girl – a real Slim Susan, Mum said – but now she felt uncomfortable and scrawny. And while Lyn still wore her dark hair in a stylish, silky bob, she’d let her own grow shaggy: a malty mane that brushed against her shoulders.

But Lyn said nothing; just placed her hand on Fran’s, and gently squeezed.

‘You’re sure you want to do this today?’ she asked after a pause.

Fran nodded quickly: shaking off temptation before it really got a grip. ‘Have to start somewhere.’ Especially there … where it had all begun.

‘There’s no hurry. Plenty of time …’ From the look on Lyn’s face, she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea at all.

Fran drank some more cool coffee, and changed the subject. ‘How’s the thesis coming on?’

Lyn wavered, then went with the flow. Smiled modestly. ‘Oh … it’s coming.’

‘So, when’s it going to be Doctor Simmons, then?’

‘God, don’t ask …’ But she was beaming at the prospect, and Fran felt a little warmer, deep inside. It eased the guilt she felt for having missed Lyn’s graduation; she wouldn’t lose this coming second chance. Even as they chatted on, she searched Lyn’s smiley face. It sounded like her future was as clear as her complexion. No storms on her horizon; not a cloud in her blue sky …

‘You’re working, then?’ she asked her.

‘Mm,’ said Lyn, ‘but not this afternoon. It’s temping – just to pay the bills. I’m a bit of a church mouse at the moment …’ She flicked at the sleeve of her well-cut suit. Fran couldn’t help but smile to herself.

Lyn hadn’t noticed; her own gaze lingered on her cup. Carefully she set it down, and bit her lip; then took the plunge.

‘Craig’s been in touch,’ she said.

Fran’s chest grew hot and heavy in the silence that followed. She fiddled with her rings; then swallowed. ‘Is he here?’

Lyn nodded. ‘Staying with friends in London.’ Her eyes were down again, embarrassed. ‘He … never forgot you, Fran. All the time you were …’ Tailing off, she twisted round to unfasten her bag, and took an envelope out. After the briefest hesitation, she laid it on the tabletop between them.

Fran rested her mouth against her hands, staring at the neat white rectangle. No stamp on it, and no address; it had gone from hand to hand. Just one word, written with a flourish. Her own name.

‘He gave me that for you,’ Lyn said, unnecessarily. ‘He wants to see you.’

Oh, Jesus , Fran thought numbly. She felt empty inside: unable to react.

Lyn leaned forward. ‘Fran, we’re here ,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have to face anything alone. He really cares for you – believe me. Just … let us hold your hands; go through it with you.’