Dark Ages. John Pritchard

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      Fran almost turned and walked away right then.

      It had taken her so long to get this far. She hadn’t even answered that first letter. But Lynette had patiently persisted: so gentle, so committed, that all at once, one afternoon, Fran’s brittle shell had cracked. She’d wept a year’s worth of tears that day; her mum had told her later what a blessed sound it was – drifting downstairs from the bedroom through the silent, sunlit hall. After all those months of torpor and withdrawal, her daughter sobbing like a little girl.

      More letters; then a phone call. We have to meet, Lynette had said. And Fran was feeling better, but still delicate and drained – as if she’d just brought up the poison of the world’s worst tummy ache. She’d hesitated; hummed and hawed. The soft voice on the phone was a voice from the past. And the past was forbidden ground.

      Yet here she was, right now, in sunny Oxford, nervously waiting while Lynette crossed the street. As ever, Lyn looked gorgeous – a picture of elegance in her smart black trouser suit and snowy blouse. Fran suddenly felt dowdy in her cardigan and leggings.

      Lyn hesitated for a moment, then gently touched her shoulders – kissed her cheek. When she drew back, her smile looked stretched; her eyes were bright and wet.

      Fran felt her own eyes prickling behind the shades she wore. Her throat had tightened up, she couldn’t speak. That smile was from the Old Days: from Before. She’d almost forgotten what the sunshine looked like – the nuclear winter in her head had blotted it all out. But now, at last, the cold, black smoke was lifting. A glimpse of light again. A breath of spring.

      And more than that: her friend was here, and beaming her delight. It made Fran warm inside, to see her pleasure. It made her feel so happy she could cry.

      Lyn had worked so hard for this. She’d earned it. Fran wanted just to hug her, and hold tight.

      ‘Oh, God … Sorry …’ Lyn blinked and sniffed, still smiling. People kept on passing, heedless of the reunion in their midst. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said simply.

      Fran swallowed. ‘Thanks for waiting.’ An even bigger under-statement, but she couldn’t find a better way to say it. And had it only been four years? She felt like Rip van Winkle (Sleeping Beauty was too flattering a parallel): waking up to find the world had changed, and all her friends were dust …

      Except for one. And who’d have guessed it, back when they were freshers?

      ‘Come on,’ Lyn said, and took her elbow. ‘Remember Heroes? It’s still there. Let’s have coffee.’

      2

      She’d been down for her interview, and seen its winter colours; but it had taken that golden first weekend to really bring her under Oxford’s spell.

      Michaelmas Term: even the name was strange and rich somehow. The city in the autumn sunlight had seemed part of a whole new world. After the rugged countryside of home, it might have been a magical realm. She could feel the age of things down here: the buildings, and the books. And though she’d grown up close to ancient places, they’d never had a hold on her like this.

      The place was beautiful enough; she had watched the stone-work glowing in the amber setting sun. But for her, the fascination was its treasury of thought. That was why she’d worked to come to Oxford: to study there, and somehow soak it up. Those hoards of books; those centuries of learning. It wasn’t the prestige: that didn’t matter.

      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 …

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