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 favour 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 towards 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 colourful 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 colour 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.