Freya (32 page)

Hetty performed the introduction. Dicks nodded, and scraped the glowing tip of his cigarette against the ashtray. His small head was accentuated by his outsize ears, which protruded like the handles of a prize cup.

‘The
Envoy
. That's the lefty one, isn't it?' he said.

Freya tipped her head. ‘It has liberal sympathies. I'm sorry we didn't manage to meet the other day – at the Café Royal.'

‘Oh. Were we meant to? Kenny –' Dicks nodded at his assistant – ‘takes down all the phone messages. Can't read his bleedin' handwriting most of the time.' Kenny murmured an apology and disappeared somewhere. A silence fell, so Freya began to explain the profile of him she had planned, how it would require a couple of afternoons just talking, with perhaps a look through his archive to pick out a few of his favourite portraits – she felt sure he had some stories to tell …

Dicks stared off, a blank. He couldn't have been less interested. Then, without warning, his face broke into a wide grin that revealed his irregular discoloured teeth. Freya was disarmed for a split second until she saw what had occasioned this remarkable change: Rhoda, the whippet, had just slunk into the room, and Dicks, leaning forward, picked her up with avuncular fondness.

‘Ahhh … me pal!' he cried, stroking the dog's narrow head. His smile was entranced.

Hetty, watching this reunion, said with a laugh, ‘You look a bit like her, you know.' And Freya too now saw a certain kinship in the dark eyes and pointy features of dog and man.

Jerry, after some more petting of Rhoda, addressed the business in hand. ‘So, an interview … How much?' His eyes were back on Freya.

‘What d'you mean?'

‘I mean, how much do I get paid for it?'

‘Well – nothing,' she said. ‘We don't pay anyone to be interviewed.'

Dicks gave her a disbelieving look. ‘What? You're expecting me to give up my time for
nowt
?'

‘It doesn't work like that, darling,' said Hetty. ‘It'd be like a sitter asking you to pay them for taking their picture.'

‘I pay
you
!' he said accusingly.

‘Not much. And
you
don't pay me in any case, it's the agency.'

But Dicks grumbled on; he couldn't understand why he should put himself out for nothing. He had a living to make, didn't he? Hetty, in a patient voice, reasoned with him, explaining the deal: the newspaper got the interview, the photographer got the publicity, and both of them got the benefit in sales and reputation. He still looked unimpressed, and Freya realised that she would have to win him round personally. As far as he was concerned she was just a face he didn't know, from a newspaper he never read – a pest, in short.

‘By the way,' she began, ‘I called in at your club earlier. Vera was asking after you.'

Dicks paused, momentarily thrown that she knew either his club or its proprietor. ‘Haven't been in there for a while. Vera –
la vieille dame sans merci
! Did she really ask after me?'

Freya caught his eye, and gave a little comic grimace. ‘To be honest, no. What she said was, “Tell the cunt he owes me money.”'

Dicks, not expecting this verbal slap, tucked in his chin: she had flashed him the merest glimpse of personality, but it was enough. He threw back his head and cackled mightily. Hetty, she saw, was giving her a knowing look. There was something expansive and forgiving in Jerry's tone as he told her about Vera. They'd known each other from way back, of course – Vera had been running the Dean Street club for years, ‘with all the charm of a Soviet border guard'.

‘Yeah,' he reflected, ‘she's a hero to thousands, that woman, and not a fuckin' friend in the world, ha ha!' His laugh, initially vigorous, had turned wheezing.

‘So, Jerry,' said Hetty, perhaps sensing the moment, ‘I'm sure you can see your way to chatting for an hour or two with Freya here. Your picture in the paper – what d'you say?'

Dicks shook out another cigarette and lit it. He gulped down the smoke. ‘Dare say I can. I'll even put on a shirt and collar for yer,' he added with a giggle. ‘But you'll need to gimme some notice. Twiggez-vous?'

‘What sort of notice?' asked Freya.

‘Oh, a few weeks. I've got a shoot to do in Paris next week, then it's on to Zurich, Genoa, Milan. I tell you, I'll need a fuckin' rest cure by the time I get back.'

Freya asked him if they might arrange a meeting before he went on his travels, but Jerry wouldn't hear of it. Hetty had a try too, but it was really like arguing with a spoilt child. Eventually the door knocker sounded from below to break the impasse, and Kenny came up escorting a couple of men, both hard-faced and businesslike in suits. They offered neither a greeting nor a smile, not even for Rhoda the whippet. Hetty, without exchanging a word with the newcomers, signalled to Freya that it was time to leave. Jerry waggled his hand in a half-hearted goodbye.

‘Stubborn old bugger, isn't he?' said Hetty as she accompanied Freya down the stairs.

‘I'll winkle him out somehow. We have a friend in common – Nat Fane –'

‘Yeah, I saw you talking to him at the Villiers that night. Nat's rather fascinated by Jerry. Maybe a bit envious of him, too.'

‘Envious? Why?'

Hetty's smile was enigmatic. ‘Well – Jerry lives on his own terms. He does what he likes, because he doesn't care what people think of him. Nat, though, he
really
cares what people think.'

They were at the door when Freya said, ‘Those two men who just came in – who were they?'

‘Oh, Jerry knows all sorts of villains,' she said. ‘He's always up to something – I think those two buy up his dirty pictures to sell in the clubs round here.'

‘Really?'

‘Nothing very serious. Boys with big cocks, stuff like that. It's quite a nice earner for him.'

‘Does he need to? I mean, with
Vogue
, and the gallery –'

‘Jerry's terrible with money – he runs through it. Why d'you think he was so keen to charge for an interview?' They stood talking for a few minutes more outside the flat. Freya was about to leave when Hetty, almost as an afterthought, put out a restraining hand. ‘I was forgetting you work for a paper. What I mentioned about Jerry and his pictures – can you keep mum?'

Freya nodded, of course she would. Hetty held her gaze for a moment, and smiled. ‘I only told you that cos I like you.'

The verdict in the trial of Vere Summerhill was out. The defendant was found guilty of committing acts of gross indecency with two young naval ratings and sentenced to six months' imprisonment. At the
Envoy
that afternoon Robert and Freya were summoned to the editor's office: Standish was planning to run a series of articles about the case.

‘I want the repercussions of it examined from every angle – talk to the judge, to the Director of Public Prosecutions, to the police. We should also get an interview with the Lord Chamberlain's Office about homosexuality on the stage – we have to find out whether Summerhill will ever be allowed to work in theatre again.'

‘There's also the medical point of view to consider,' said Robert. ‘Some doctors believe that queers can be, well, cured by treatment – electric shock therapy, female sex hormones and what have you.'

Standish looked doubtful. ‘Yes, but we can't make it too explicit. Our readers don't like that stuff forced down their throat – as it were.'

Robert glanced at Freya, who said, ‘With respect, we should treat our readers as grown-ups. The real danger is ignorance – if people still think homosexuality is a “disease” then of course they're going to fear it. We should definitely talk to the British Medical Association about how effective this treatment is. For all we know the whole idea of medical intervention might be a mistake.'

‘But what's the alternative?' asked Robert. ‘Do you really think people are going to put up with a lot of sodomites doing as they please?'

Standish made a grimace. ‘I think “inverts” is the word here, Robert. “Sodomite” is rather, um – distasteful.'

Freya felt a sudden bleakness of spirit descend on her. If the
Envoy
was supposed to be the liberal end of the newspaper market … But no, the battles had to be chosen carefully. ‘I don't think we should lose sight of Summerhill in all this. He's the victim, after all.'

‘Not in the eyes of the law,' said Robert with a shrug.

‘That's exactly what we're debating,' she replied levelly. ‘The law may well be at fault. Anyway, I could do a piece on Vere, gather tributes from people in the business.'

‘I don't think we should turn him into a martyr,' said Robert. ‘Summerhill knew the risks, consorting with those lowlifes – he just made the mistake of getting caught.'

‘We've been through this before,' said Freya, nettled. ‘To say he shouldn't have got caught presupposes he was doing something wrong. The counterargument is that the state has no right to intervene in what goes on in private between consenting adults.'

‘Quite so,' said Standish. ‘Robert, if you concentrate on the legal and judicial side, Freya can take care of the medical and moral questions. And I like the idea of personal tributes – we could use that picture of Nat Fane outside the court.'

Robert groaned theatrically. ‘As if
he
needs any more publicity.'

The next day, while Freya was writing her weekly column, Robert sidled over to her desk. ‘Doing anything for lunch?'

‘I'm insanely busy,' she said without looking up.

‘Not even a quick sandwich at the Marquis?'

There was a pleading note in his voice. When she said she could spare him three-quarters of an hour he looked grateful. The Marquis was a musty old-fashioned pub situated in the warren of courts off Fleet Street. Sawdust carpeted the floor. She arrived to find Robert at a corner table with a pale ale on the go.

‘Let me fetch you a libation,' he said, getting up.

When she asked for a ginger beer he sniggered, and went off to the bar. It took her a few moments to work out what had amused him. Settled at the table Robert began talking about their meeting with Standish; he was pleased that they had been entrusted with a ‘big story', he continued, given they were relative juniors in the office. This could be a significant step-up for both of them.

Absorbing this, Freya said, ‘I didn't want to say anything in front of Standish, Robert, but – do you really
want
to do this story?'

He looked at her. ‘What d'you mean? Of course I do.'

‘It's just that, I don't think you much care for Summerhill or for what he's been put through. You don't like queers and never have. “Ginger beers”! If I didn't know you better I'd say you regard prison as exactly what they deserve.'

Robert's face froze for a moment; he looked stunned with disbelief. ‘Why would you say that? I've got nothing against Summerhill or his kind –'

‘But you have. Yesterday you said that if they got caught they only have themselves to blame. It alarms me to think of you reporting on this when your starting point is that Vere Summerhill and “his kind” are basically criminal.'

Robert was shaking his head. ‘I've never said that. And I don't think prison sentences for homosexuality are justified. All I was proposing was the need for discretion. I don't think it's monstrous of me to say I'd rather they kept themselves to themselves.'

‘– because you're revolted by them. Which is why I'm wondering how you can possibly write about this in an unprejudiced way.'

‘For God's sake, I'm a
journalist
, that's the job – you learn how to evaluate the information, not get bloody emotional about the arguments. I could ask the same about your impartiality. How do you know your sympathy for Summerhill won't affect what you write?'

‘None of us is absolutely impartial, I agree. All you can try to do is give someone a fair hearing. And in the case of a homosexual it strikes me that a woman would be naturally more disposed to understand, because she knows what it's like to be feared and despised by society.'

‘What the hell are you talking about?' said Robert, his face puckered in disgust.

‘Well, look at recent history. Forty-odd years ago our government imprisoned women because they had the temerity to demand the vote – to demand the
basic rights
of a citizen. Whether the suffragists back then felt much affinity for the likes of Oscar Wilde, also languishing in jail, I couldn't say. But times have changed, and women who've grown up on stories of their mothers and grandmothers being persecuted for their beliefs perhaps look on this outlawed minority and feel, I don't know, a recurring sense of injustice.'

‘The two aren't comparable,' he said. ‘Suffrage was a political question. Homosexuality is a moral one.'

‘Robert, you sound horribly like a politician. Do you really think morality and politics are somehow independent of one another? One of the reasons Asquith's government refused to countenance female suffrage was their fear it would undermine the
moral
fabric of the family – that a woman who was allowed to vote would neglect the duties of “hearth and home”.'

‘Your analogy's rot in any event. Whatever their political inclinations, most women don't feel the slightest sympathy for men who hang around public lavatories for their thrills.'

‘That's just what I'd expect a man to say.'

He was glaring at her now. ‘You're so bloody self-righteous, you know.'

She paused for a moment. ‘And I thought you'd changed, too.' She said it with a half-laugh and got up to leave. Robert, with an anguished groan, rose to stop her.

‘Freya, please – don't. Don't go.'