The Choice Read online

  “May I have a quiet word, Miss Darbishire?”

  “But of course… When have I ever said ‘no’ to you?”

  The principal stands, stretching her arms, her back. Every muscle she owns seems to ache. She moves slowly from behind her desk to face what she already knows is bad news.

  “It’s about The Fox, Miss Darbishire.”

  “Ah… I thought it might be.”

  “He’s moving in for the kill, as it were… You know what I mean.”

  “Indeed I do.” The principal takes a deep breath. “Who does he have in his sights this time?”

  Scroggs says bravely, “Miss Perdita Willoughby-Jones.”

  The principal staggers slightly but remains upright. “Miss Willoughby-Jones? But her family are one of our most generous benefactors. They live in – let me see now – isn’t it—”

  “Yes, ma’am. Norham Gardens. One of them big houses by the University Parks.” Scroggs appears to sag. He jabs a thumb at the elegant sofa. “May I, ma’am?”

  “Of course… Make yourself comfortable.”

  The faithful Scroggs squats on his haunches. “Seen ’em together, I have, with my own eyes.”

  Miss Darbishire groans quietly. “I suppose you’d better give me chapter and verse.”

  “Well, it were like this, see? I been watching Miss Willoughby-Jones and Miss Drummond, like, whenever The Fox takes her to the Cadena on a Saturday. That’s for starters. There’s no knowing where they’ll end up…Well, see, Willoughby-Jones, she’s always on the scene. Last night I saw all three of ’em coming out of the Phoenix. The Fox and that Perdy, as the girls call her, they were holding hands, walking the other side of Miss Drummond. She hasn’t got a clue. Nice lass, that one, she’ll go far.” Scroggs mops his face. His handkerchief is a smart silk scarf that one of the students left behind last term and told him he could have. “She’s a good egg. But that father of hers, he’s a rotten flaming—”

  The principal cuts in as fast as she can. “I know.” Her mouth tastes of bitter lemons. “Do you think anything serious has already happened?”

  Scroggs looks carefully at the ceiling. “’Fraid so, ma’am. That sorry I am. ’Fraid so.”

  The principal’s soft voice hardens. “Then we’d better end the whole thing before it happens again.”

  Scroggs heaves himself to his feet. He shifts his weight from one tired leg to the other. “Do you wish to see the aforesaid now, ma’am?”

  “No. I can’t cope with it now… Let me sleep on it.” The principal stoops over her daunting diary. “Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Of course, ma’am. I’ll make sure the above mentioned is waiting outside your door.” Scroggs hesitates. “Will she be sent down?”

  “But of course. Immediately. Clear her room and put her in a cab.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll give her a hand with her bags and that…”

  Tears spark in the eyes of the brave, the stalwart, the not-so-innocent principal of Somerville College for Girls, Oxford.

  She says, “Foxes can be filthy animals, can’t they?”

  Scroggs turns at the door. He meets her eyes. The bonfire of anger burns between them, giving them both a smattering of comfort.

  “Filthy?… I should say!… This Fox is vermin.”

  “And Miss Drummond?”

  “Like I say, ma’am… Innocent as the day she were born. Leastways, she is for now. The poor wee lass.”

  The Somerville Cherry

  Oxford, 1936

  The following morning, Eleanor forces herself to climb into her father’s Bullnose Morris and drive to Oxford.

  It takes her half an hour to persuade the engine to start. Patches of road are still covered in black ice; she drives with the utmost care. This is the first time she has had to negotiate the roads in winter weather. Walter had taught her how to handle the car the previous summer, as a reward for getting a place at Somerville.

  “Take the next right after the roundabout… Splendid… That’s my girl!”

  Eleanor had always longed to drive. She learned quickly, motoring around Woodstock’s bumpy lanes in the early evening twilight, thrilled to be behind the wheel, delighted by her new feelings of independence.

  “Always use the mirror. Always give hand signals… Excellent… You’re a natural-born driver, Ellie… Some women are, some aren’t. Your mother would be hopeless, and she knows it!”

  Eleanor’s driving licence became one of her prized possessions: admired by her school friends, a formal acknowledgement that she had entered the adult world.

  The car’s back seat is full of Walter’s clutter: drawing pads, boxes of charcoal, crumpled maps, a scarlet woollen scarf, a picnic-rug harbouring clumps of ageing yellow grass, empty tobacco tins, a pair of Wellington boots, smeared with dried mud. Anne regularly tidied up after her husband in the house, but refused to touch either his studio or the car. She’d shrug her shoulders.

  “If you don’t mind working in a hovel, and driving around in a dustbin, I’ll have to put up with it!”

  Eleanor’s feelings of dread at meeting Miss Darbishire have increased with every hour. As she parks the Morris in Beaumont Street, her heart thrums against her ribs. She remembers her excitement on arriving at Somerville that first morning. How differently she feels now, with neither the energy nor the inclination to fight her corner. She knows she’ll fail to put up any argument strong enough to convince the principal she should abandon her studies.

  Because last night, after the mourners had left, after Eleanor emerged forlorn from Walter’s studio, Anne had broken down, sobbing in Eleanor’s arms.

  “Promise you won’t leave, Eleanor. Promise me! I feel so lonely and abandoned. Don’t go back to College. Stay with me. I can’t live without you.”

  “There, there, Mummy… Don’t cry. Of course I’ll stay with you. Somerville can wait. Somerville is not important. You are.”

  In the Drummond family, promises made are promises faithfully kept.

  Eleanor taps nervously at the principal’s door.

  “Come!”

  She pushes against it. The room, spacious, beautiful and elegantly furnished, is lit by sets of tall windows overlooking the neatly-kept college grounds.

  “Miss Drummond!” Helen Darbishire – plump, kindly, blue-eyed, fair-haired – stands from behind her desk and moves towards her with outstretched hands. “I was very sorry indeed to hear your tragic news… I’d hoped so much to meet your mother.” She tugs at the pale blue cashmere sweater beneath her tweed jacket. “Please, sit here… Now, tell me exactly what happened.”

  Eleanor makes a brave attempt to explain, fumbling over the words. She likes Miss Darbishire but feels uneasy in her presence. The principal has a curious immobility about her. Stories abound about students who’d read their essays aloud to her while for twenty minutes she sat absolutely still, her eyes closed. Convinced that Miss Darbishire had fallen asleep, the students were astounded at the end of the essays when she opened her eyes to ask pertinent questions about specific sections of their work.

  Now, however, the principal listens with equal care and attention, her eyes on Eleanor’s face.

  “So you see,” Eleanor wills herself to carry on, “I’ve told my mother I’ll stay with her… I can’t renege on my promise.”

  “I entirely understand your position.” Miss Darbishire’s eyes flutter with sympathy. “You’re not alone in your predicament. During the Great War, I heard of many similar tragedies. Girls who lost their fathers, and had to abandon their studies.”

  “I see.” Perhaps the principal will be more sympathetic than Eleanor has anticipated? “The thing is, they died fighting in the war. They were heroes. My father’s death, by comparison, was such a trivial event—”

  “But tragic
nevertheless. He was trying to prevent the runaway horse from damaging itself or other people.”

  Eleanor’s head begins to spin. It’s as if she’s standing in the Woodstock street, spattered by snow, helplessly watching her father slither across the road towards Sprinter. “Yes, but—”

  “Then in his own way, your father acted heroically.”

  Eleanor swallows. “My mother thinks it was a pointless way to die. She’s furious as well as grief-stricken. It’s why I can’t leave her. I’m worried she’ll do something silly if I don’t keep an eye on her.” The enormity of what Eleanor will be giving up suddenly strikes home. “I can’t believe I’ll have to abandon my studies. I was so looking forward to this term… And I’ve worked very hard—”

  “Indeed you have. Your entrance essay for our General Paper was outstanding. We’d have accepted you on its strength alone. And last term, you got through Pass Moderations with flying colours. You didn’t do that by lying on a sofa eating chocolates.”

  “No, quite the opposite.” Eleanor remembers the previous term when her exams consisted of four papers: Pliny’s Letters in Latin; French; Classical Logic; and Greek literature in translation. She’d had weekly tutorials on the minor Elizabethan poets, had attended lectures given by C. S. Lewis, the war-shattered Edmund Blunden and Tolkien delivering on Beowulf. Every night she’d fallen exhausted into bed, her mind whirring.

  “If you rejoin us tomorrow,” the principal leans forward, her eyes shining with eagerness, “you could still see your mother every week. I could make arrangements for your meeting in College. Would that be an acceptable compromise?”

  Eleanor shakes her head. “I’d find it impossible to concentrate on my studies. I’d always be worrying about Mummy – and she’d still feel I’d abandoned her.”

  “I don’t want to pry into your private affairs, but is it a question of money?”

  “No.” Eleanor flushes, remembering the anxiety in Michael Humphreys’ eyes. “At least, I hope it won’t be.”

  “If you are in financial difficulties, the College might be able to help.”

  Unable to trust herself to speak, Eleanor shakes her head. Carrying a begging bowl around Oxford’s management committees would be the final straw.

  Miss Darbishire sighs heavily. She takes refuge behind her desk.

  “I don’t need to remind you that Somerville’s one hundred and fifty girls have been hand-picked, Miss Drummond. You’re among the chosen few. It’s a considerable honour—”

  “I know that!” Eleanor’s on the brink of tears. Only the sound of her own indignant voice stops them in their tracks.

  “Then may I suggest you go home and think carefully about your decision? Getting a degree, being qualified to teach, will be an excellent way to support your mother. Talk to her again. I’d be delighted to see her.” The principal’s blue eyes lift and gaze into Eleanor’s. In them shines sadness and disappointment. “How does that sound?”

  “I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.” She stands up, her legs shaking. “Believe me, I didn’t want any of this to happen.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” The principal is also on her feet. “Neither did I.” A plump hand strokes at a stray wisp of hair, as if she’s brushing away her own dark memories. “Death asks nobody’s permission…” Her voice falters for a second, but then briskly resumes its even keel. “But you’ve only had one bite at the Somerville cherry. It’s my job to fight for your continuing nourishment.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m extremely grateful.” Eleanor holds out her hand. “But for the time being, at least, it’s goodbye… I’ll collect my things from my room. And I’ll think about everything you’ve said.”

  Back in Beaumont Street, Eleanor sits behind the wheel of the Bullnose Morris and bursts into tears. She feels trapped between two dark seas. She’ll be criticised if she does return to Somerville – “How could you be so cold-hearted, Eleanor? Your own mother needs you, and you turn your back on her!” – and condemned if she doesn’t – “How could you throw away such an opportunity? Think of those years of study, those exams you passed. Remember how proud Walter was when you got your place!”

  Staring into the driving mirror, Eleanor dries her eyes. Her face looks blotchy, her hair is a mess. She can’t go home looking like this. She’ll pack her cases, clear her room, drive to the gates of Somerville and pile her stuff in the car. Then she’ll have coffee at the Cadena. Pull herself together before facing Anne again.

  Luckily, her corridor in West lies empty. Everyone is either in the library or shopping.

  Eleanor dreads meeting her friends, having to face their sympathy, their questions. Thank goodness Perdita hadn’t returned from her skiing holiday in St Moritz, or there would have been more questions, especially about Walter. Perdita had been fond of Walter. Really fond. Sadly, she’d decided she couldn’t cope with the discipline of studying. She’d left suddenly, even before the end of the Michaelmas Term.

  In Eleanor’s absence, the scout has made her bed and tidied her room. The fire is freshly laid but unlit. Shivering, Eleanor throws her possessions into suitcases. She sits on the edge of her narrow bed, clenching her fists, summoning the energy to drag the cases down the flight of stairs and out to the gate.

  Someone taps at the door and pushes it open.

  “Glad you’re still here.” Scroggs stands beaming in the doorway. “Miss Darbishire told me to find you… I were that sorry to hear your news… Can I give you a hand?”

  “Thank you, Scroggs. I’ve thrown everything into my suitcases, any old how—”

  “Let’s hope you’ll be back with us in the twinkling of an eye.” Scroggs smells of petrol and Marmite. “Never say never, that’s what my old Mam used to say… I’ll carry these two big ’uns, you take the rest.”

  They load the suitcases into the Morris. Summoned by another porter, Scroggs vanishes into College.

  A voice behind Eleanor calls her name.

  “It is you, isn’t it? Spiffing to see you again!” Robert Clark puffs up to her. “My dear girl! What are you doing? Why have you packed everything up?” He looks at her more closely. “What is the matter?”

  Eleanor had met Robert at a party during the Michaelmas Term. They’d liked each other on sight. Robert, reading English at Christ Church, comes from a wealthy Cambridgeshire family. He and Eleanor have spent many companionable afternoons together, walking by the river or across Port Meadow, discussing their English essays, the lecturers, their tutors and university gossip; drinking tea at the Cadena.

  Now he throws a friendly arm around her shoulders.

  “Where have you been? I’ve just asked after you at Somerville but they wouldn’t tell me anything. Anyone would think I was an intruder, loitering with intent!”

  In spite of her misery, Eleanor grins. With Robert beside her, she parks the car in Beaumont Street again. As they walk to the Cadena, she tells him about her week.

  Robert gasps. “Rotten luck, Ellie! You’re such a top-hole girl. Dashed difficult and all that… Here’s me thinking you had a spiffing Christmas! I am sorry.” They cross the road opposite The Randolph Hotel. “Rudyard Kipling has died since I last saw you – and of course the poor old king. And now your pater. Life’s a rum old cove, isn’t it? Snap! And the whole thing’s gorn down the blooming plughole.”

  “The trouble is,” Eleanor says as they sit over coffee and cake, “I’m not sure I can ever come back to Somerville. My mother says she can’t manage without me.” The hot, sweet liquid snakes down her throat. “I’ll miss you a lot.”

  “And I’ll miss you like crazy!” Robert swallows a large mouthful of cake. “Will you drop me a note at Christ Church? Let me know what you decide.” He wipes raspberry jam from his lips. “If you’re not coming back, I’ll drive over to Woodstock. Take you for a slap-up Sunday luncheon at The Bear.”

/>   Eleanor smiles at him. Robert feels more than ever like a dependable brother who always says the right thing. “That would be wonderful… You’re so good for me, Bob. How can I go on being miserable when you’re around?”

  But the brief window of sunshine offered by Robert Clark closes and darkens fast for Eleanor that same afternoon.

  It’s clear from Michael Humphreys’ face, the moment he walks through the door, that something is seriously wrong. Usually relaxed and smiling – over the years the solicitor’s become a good family friend – he has a stiffness and formality about him that makes Eleanor more anxious than ever.

  They meet in the drawing room, with the comfortable chairs grouped around the fire. Vera serves tea in the best china. Michael asks her to stay for the reading of the will. He leaves his cup untouched and opens his briefcase.

  “Shall we get down to business?” He looks both panic-stricken and well-rehearsed. “This is difficult for me. Walter was a good friend. I’ve known about the contents of his will for some time. The problems” – Michael hesitates, shuffling his papers, fidgeting with his necktie – “are ones of both finance and other matters.”

  “For goodness sake, Michael.” Anne’s voice is tense. “Put us out of our misery and spit it out. What does Walter’s will say?”

  Michael clears his throat. “This house, Anne, is yours—”

  “Of course it is!” Anne throws back her head. “I was born and bred here. My father left it to me in his will. There’s no way Walter could touch it, even if he’d wanted to.”

  “Which I am perfectly sure he didn’t,” Michael says quickly. “The problem is… that’s all he’s left you.”

  There’s a long shocked silence. Eleanor’s heart sinks. She’d guessed there might be a problem – but not as bad as this.

  Anne says bleakly, “It can’t be.”