“Hey Jude” was playing in the kitchen when Joely returned, the slow, mournful chords coming, she realized, from an iPad propped up on the dresser. She hadn’t imagined Freda being into gadgets, much less knowing how to download music onto a tablet.
It just went to show how mistaken first impressions could be.
Freda was at the Aga stirring the soup and humming along, glancing up only once to let Joely know she’d heard her come in.
Remembering that the song was mentioned in the memoir’s first chapter, Joely wondered if this was her host’s way of reminding her they had work to do. Well, Joely was here now, and she wasn’t late, so she didn’t need to apologize for keeping her client waiting. She simply removed her coat and scarf and hung them on the back of the door.
“Is there anything I can do?” she offered, going to the Aga.
Freda seemed on the point of replying when she lifted her head and sniffed the air. She turned to Joely curiously. “Have you been drinking?” she asked, still holding the stirring spoon.
Flushing, Joely said, “I was invited to try a local ale at the Rising Sun.”
Freda nodded thoughtfully, and instructed Joely to sit down as she picked up a ladle to fill a bowl from the pot.
Doing as she was told, Joely said, “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think that drinking at lunchtime . . .”
“Were you offered one of Auntie Marian’s hot pickled onions?” Freda interrupted, setting a serving of soup in front of Joely.
Startled, Joely said, “No.”
“Mm, shame. They’re very good.” She went to fetch some soup for herself and settled down at her usual place. “The next time you’re at the pub,” she said, picking up a napkin, “perhaps you’d be kind enough to bring back a bottle of Exmoor Gold for me.”
Thrown, not only because she was sure she’d earned her first black mark but apparently hadn’t, but also because it sounded as though Freda actually went to the pub herself on occasion. Joely asked if it were true.
“Rarely,” Freda replied, unrolling her napkin. Then changing the subject, “I don’t have a computer, but I do have this iPad. Edward talked me into it and I must say I find it a very useful research tool.” She took a mouthful of soup and continued. “I’ve compiled the music mentioned in the first two chapters of the memoir. I thought it would provide a good backing track to our discussions. Get us in the mood, so to speak, maybe even transport us back to that time.” She laughed, and corrected herself, “Well, me anyway. You’re far too young, obviously. Bread?”
She drew a large wooden board containing several crusty slices toward them as “Hey Jude” faded to a merciful end and what Joely guessed to be “The Gaelic Blessing” began—a sweet and melancholic melody that was quite hypnotic, she found.
To Joely’s surprise Freda began singing softly with the choir while looking across the table, almost as if serenading her.
“‘Deep peace of the running wave to you,’” she sang. Unsure where to look or what to do Joely was relieved when it finished and Freda started her soup.
“Rather fitting for where we are in our acquaintance, don’t you think?” Freda asked. “And for where we are on this beautiful planet we’re so keen to save.”
Though it was an unusual next step in their acquaintance Joely had to agree that actually it did seem quite fitting on both counts, and feeling safe now to pop a spoonful of soup into her mouth she did so, not having wanted to during Freda’s performance.
“Sunshine of Your Love” was next, and Freda’s shoulders moved with the beat as she ate her meal and broke apart a chunk of bread.
“He loved this,” she said, casually.
Joely swallowed a mouthful of soup, realizing that they must be talking about Sir. She placed her spoon gently back on the table, eager to hear more. But Freda just continued to boogie and eat, clearly enjoying herself immensely. At least until, to quote from her memoir, the first two magical words of “Young Girl” flew into the room and a change came over her that Joely found quite strange—as if the whole thing wasn’t strange enough. Freda became very still as though trapped in the words and their resonance, carried away into memories they seemed to stir . . . Was it pleasure or pain?
She put down her spoon and ran her knotty fingers through her hair. She seemed to be shaking as she sat quietly throughout the song, and when at last it played out she sat still for a while, staring at her bowl, until finally she looked at Joely with an expression that somehow managed to be both sad and faintly self-mocking. “If ever there was a theme tune,” she murmured.
She was right, it could have been written especially for young Freda and her music teacher, and how powerfully it must have captured them when it was released at the very start of their . . . affair? It must have been that, surely, it had to be where the story was going, but perhaps more than an affair considering the need to write about it all these years later.
After a while Joely ventured, softly, “Do you know where he is now?”
Freda frowned, not in confusion but in something more like disapproval. “We’ll get there,” she replied, “and please don’t ask me questions like that again.”
Stung, Joely continued her soup and quietly listened to the piano recital now playing—Debussy’s “Clair de lune,” Freda informed her.
Halfway through, Freda said, “Tell me what you think of the writing style I’ve adopted. Do you find the first person, present tense an approach that works, or would you advise something different?”
Thinking fast, Joely lowered her spoon and said, “The way it is brings the reader right into the moment, so I wouldn’t change it.”
Freda considered this, tilting her head to one side as she smiled in apparent satisfaction.
Another piano recital began. “Chopin Nocturne Number Two in E-flat Major,” she said. “I’ve selected these pieces at random because they’re well known. I don’t actually remember what was played at the parents’ house the weekend private piano lessons were discussed. Do you think that matters? The fact that I’ve . . . improvised?”
“Not at all,” Joely replied, unable to understand why it would.
“I deliberately didn’t say fictionalized, but would you agree that sometimes, in a memoir, it’s necessary to help the facts a little, either to make them more interesting, or to bring clarity to a complex situation? Or simply to move things along.”
“Ye-es,” Joely replied, drawing out the word and hoping it was the answer her client was looking for.
Freda nodded and nodded again. “What do you think of my parents and their friends?” she asked bluntly. “Do you find them appallingly debauched and irresponsible?”
Mindful that it was never a good idea to be critical of someone’s relatives, Joely said, “I think they were people of their time and probably very interesting parents to have.”
Freda chomped on a mouthful of bread as she absorbed this, then asked, “Would you say that Mother was in favor of an affair with Sir? That she tried to nudge me into it even?”
Judging it wise to counter this with a question of her own, Joely said, “Why would you think that?”
“Well, she knew I wanted private lessons and asked me if I had a crush on him. If she thought that, wouldn’t finding another teacher have been the right thing to do?”
Thinking she had a point, Joely said, “Do you blame your mother for . . . what happened?”
Freda eyed her beadily. “You don’t know what happened,” she reminded her.
“No, but I’m presuming there was a relationship that . . . didn’t end well?”
Freda didn’t deny it, she simply got up from the table and carried her bowl to the sink. The music changed to a ponderous recital—Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1, Freda told her, and added, “He could play everything you’ve heard. He was very talented.”
Was she using the past tense because he was no longer alive, or because it had happened a long time ago? She ought to be able to ask, but her client had already made it clear that she was not receptive to questions that would reveal any detail of where her story was going.
She watched as Freda stood listening to the melancholic melody and wondered what she was seeing and thinking as she gazed down across the meadow toward the cove.
After a while Freda checked the time on her watch, then put her hands in her pockets as she continued to stare at the outside world. It was as though she was expecting someone to arrive—or the tide to come in? Suddenly she turned around.
“Tell me what you were like when you were fifteen,” she said as though it were a perfectly natural question to ask—and maybe it was.
Joely began struggling for an answer, wanting to make herself sound interesting, or at least a little more colorful than the predictable, studious, hardly rebellious spirit she’d been.
Freda said, “Were you promiscuous? Maybe you had a crush on a teacher.”
“No and yes,” Joely replied. “I was quite shy, actually, but I remember having some pretty lurid fantasies about the PE coach.”
She couldn’t tell whether Freda was still listening; her back was turned again and it was a while before she said, “We’re none of us really as fascinating as we like to think we are. Would you agree with that?”
Doing her best to keep up, Joely said, “Probably.”
Freda picked up a bowl of apples and brought it to the table. “Did you visit my library yesterday?” She plonked the fruit down, her eyes were burning with interest.
Joely said, “In your note you mentioned you’d introduce—”
“Then let’s go,” Freda interrupted. “I want you to see where I write, and if it appeals to you I shall invite you to work there while you ghost.”
After disposing of her own soup bowl in the sink, Joely followed Freda through the door Freda had disappeared through earlier this morning and up a narrow staircase to another door with the same cast-iron handle and thumb latch as many others around the house.
Clicking it open, Freda stepped into a large square room and threw out her arms. “Here we are,” she declared, spinning around as she indicated the bookshelves so crammed and weighted by publications of every shape, size, and color that there was no room left for anything else but two tall arched windows overlooking the meadow and cliffs beyond, and another door.
Joely took it all in, mesmerized by the collection of so many novels and biographies, reference works, volumes of poetry, plays, bound manuscripts, foreign-language editions of Freda’s own literary creations. There was so much, and as far as she could tell everything was categorized and alphabetized, there was even a rolling librarian’s ladder parked in one corner and an exquisite though worn leather reading chair complete with lamp and footrest.
“My husband had this part of the house added on for me,” Freda told her. “He designed it himself. He found it amusing to gift me an ivory tower and I admit I found it amusing too—until I saw it and then, of course I fell in love with it. How could I not? It provides me with all the privacy and quiet I need to work, or to relax, and naturally one never tires of the view. It changes every day, and it nourishes me in ways nothing else can. It’s my great love now, this library, and my writing room.” She moved to the opposite door, but before thumbing down the latch, she pointed to a sign and read out the words, “Schauen Sie tief in die Natur, und Sie werden alles besser verstehen. Do you know what that means?”
Joely shook her head. “Is it German?” she ventured.
Freda gave a laugh of approval. “It’s a quote from Einstein,” she replied. “Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.” Another gift from my husband, and when you go up to the writing room you’ll understand why he considered it to be appropriate.”
At the top of the next staircase, the upper level of the square tower, there was another door, this one already half open and as Joely followed Freda through she saw right away why Mr. Donahoe’s wife loved it so much. It was surely every writer’s dream to have a place like this. Though it was smaller than the library, and with only a few select books on the shelves, the sense of calm, the light, the sheer essence of the room must surely be as invigorating and inspirational as any writer could ever wish for.
“Special, isn’t it?” Freda commented.
Joely nodded, still taking it in. There was a day bed draped in white muslin against one wall, an armchair that matched the one downstairs, a marquetry cabinet, and an Edwardian leather-topped writing desk with bow legs, five drawers, and small brass ring handles. On top of the desk was an old-fashioned Remington typewriter with a blank sheet wound into the roller and a box full of black spooled ribbons beside it.
“I order them from America,” Freda replied to Joely’s unasked question. “The machine itself was my father’s. I know there are easier ways to work these days, but I’m attached to it.”
Tearing herself from the fascination of a bygone era Joely crossed to one of the windows, wanting to get a closer look at the balcony that hugged it. It was large enough to stand on, she discovered, though perhaps not when it was so cold outside, and even then she felt sure that being out there would give her vertigo considering how high they were. She looked ahead at a whirling formation of seabirds and on to the restless waves glittering in a sudden burst of sunlight. Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better. From here there was only a look into nature.
She turned to find Freda watching her.
“Is this somewhere you’d like to work?” Freda asked hopefully, generously. “You can bring your laptop, but I shall ask you to use a font that is similar to my Remington’s. After all these years I find it easier to read—and I’d like you to print out the pages when you’ve finished so I don’t have to critique on a screen. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Of course,” Joely replied, “but do you have a printer?”
“I don’t, but Edward has organized for one to be delivered sometime today.” Her eyes performed a slow progress into twinkle. “And once you’re underway in here I shall wait with bated breath elsewhere in the house for you to bring me your literary interpretations of our discussions. Is that acceptable to you? Will you take notes, or did you bring a voice recorder?”
Not a little daunted by this on several levels, Joely tackled the unstated one first. “Are you meaning that you want me to continue the first draft?” she asked.
No hesitation. “Correct. With the first two chapters I’ve established a style for you to emulate, and I have every confidence that you’ll do so with great skill and sensitivity. Taking a step back like this will allow me to call upon a more objective viewpoint, and at the same time it’ll give me an idea of how you see my life.” She gave a sudden laugh that softened her features and seemed to dispel the strange air of intensity. “Don’t look so worried,” she chided. “Before you write anything we’ll talk, at length. I’ll tell you everything that happened and you’ll transform it into words that everyone will believe I’ve written myself.”
It wasn’t as though Joely hadn’t worked this way before, often because the client was either too busy or too lazy to do it themselves—and just as often because they had no writing skills. None of these applied to Freda M. Donahoe, who was an established author of a literary standard that Joely wasn’t at all sure she could emulate, much less meet.
“It’ll simply be a first draft,” Freda reminded her, picking up on Joely’s misgivings. “When it’s done we’ll review and edit it together and if need be I’ll take over from there. Would that suit you?”
Joely said, “Yes, I’m sure it will. I just . . . Well . . .”
“Don’t be intimidated,” Freda instructed. “I have no doubt that we’ll soon fall into a pattern that will work extremely well for us both. I don’t want you to be shy about making suggestions, and you must feel free to give me your opinions on certain behaviors. I asked you about my parents earlier, and what sort of people you considered them to be. It’s going to be helpful to me to see them—and myself—through your eyes. Did you warm to young Freda?”
Wishing she felt better prepared for this, while realizing she had to get herself off the spot before she came out with the wrong thing, Joely said, “I’d like to have some time to think about that,” and before Freda could respond she pointed to a door beside the day bed. “What’s through there?” she asked.
Unruffled by this small distraction, Freda raised her eyebrows humorously. “A WC,” she replied, and glanced over her shoulder as a voice carried up from downstairs.
“Yoohoo, I’m back.”
To Joely’s relief it was Brenda, who’d returned to clear up after lunch and to take away any laundry that needed doing. At least while Freda was busy with her, Joely would have a little time to collect her thoughts and maybe even read through those first two chapters again. She’d had no idea she was going to be questioned about them in quite such a personal way, and nor had she expected to be writing the rest of the first draft herself. If anything, after reading the first chapters, she’d imagined her role was going to be more of a sounding board, a researcher, perhaps even a line editor, with some occasional ghostwriting. However, if she’d learned anything from this past half an hour with Freda Donahoe it was that if she, Joely Foster, wanted to make an impression on her unusual and clearly unpredictable client she was going to need all her wits about her.
“So,” Freda said with a smile as they settled down at either side of the kitchen fireplace after Brenda had gone, “have you decided yet whether you’re warming to the young Freda?”
Used to clients referring to themselves in the third person, especially when discussing behavior or events they might not be proud of, Joely said, “I’m still forming an opinion, but she certainly intrigues me.” And before Freda could take the ball back to her court she said, “What do you think of her?”
Appearing surprised by the question, but ready to take the challenge, Freda said, “I think she’s vain, ignorant, and arrogant.”
Joely hadn’t expected that. “Harsh words to speak about yourself, especially when you were at such a tender age.”
“Do you think I have to like who I was back then?”
“No, but if you’re still angry with your fifteen-year-old self it’ll come through and—” She broke off as Freda waved a dismissive hand.
“I was naïve,” she declared, “vulnerable and hormonal. I thought I knew more than I possibly could at fifteen, and my parents encouraged me to believe it.”
“So you’re still angry with them?”
Freda’s eyes shifted to the flames as she considered this. It seemed to take a long time for her to formulate an answer, until in the end she folded her hands almost prayer-like and began to shake her head. “I loved my parents,” she said softly. “I loved them very much and they suffered in ways no parent should ever have to.”
Joely held her silence, and even her breath. She pictured the raucous weekend parties and motherly chats that had influenced and confused a young girl; the respectable tax lawyer and his wife the civil servant who wrote speeches for ministers. Could they still be alive? They’d be very old if they were. What had happened to them? What had happened to the husband, and was there any other family today besides the nephew?
Freda spoke again, this time in a tone that was light, even bordering on playful as she said, “How do you feel about explicit sex?”
Joely stared at her.
“Writing it, I mean.”
Joely swallowed, and tried to work out what the right response should be.
“Do you think sex should be portrayed in graphic detail?” Freda inquired. “Or should it be approached with the use of subtle innuendo and metaphor?”
Still not certain of herself, Joely said, “Probably the latter?”
“Mm,” Freda murmured. “I suppose it’s not really possible for you to give an intelligent answer, is it, until you know what happened after the piano lesson.”
Smarting at the intelligent answer, Joely reached for her notebook and recorder as any good ghostwriter should.