need a decent score. Of course, it’s easier because I’ve studied for them before.
—You have?
Imogen nods. —It’s a rather embarrassing tale. But you have to understand, Mr. Walsingham, there was so much confusion. No one would have raised an eyebrow if I wanted to study art or music like Mummy or Ellie. But I wanted to know things, to be a part of life and not simply imitate it. So I got it in my head that I must go to Somerville. There were endless rows with Papa, but in the end I went up for the Easter exams anyway. Naturally I hadn’t studied nearly enough. I could manage the English or Greek, but my Latin was weak, and maths was pure misery.
Imogen glances at Ashley, knitting her brow.
—You see, it just felt so wrong. Sneaking out to Oxford on my own when Mummy had practically bent over backwards to put Ellie in the Slade. And when I got there it was nothing like I’d imagined, the colleges practically empty save for cadets. The exam was four days, staying in the most frigid rooms at Oriel, for you know they’ve made Somerville a hospital. By the third morning it just seemed absurd, with the war on and rebellion in Ireland, that there I was quivering in bed at the thought of algebra—
—You didn’t finish them?
Imogen sighs, shaking her head. —But I’m going to take them again. I’ve had a few months to knock about London and think things over. That’s quite enough. Sooner or later one realizes it isn’t enough to be clever, to have even the finest ideas. One must do something, one must create some corner of goodness in the world, however small. For a few weeks I was convinced I should be a midwife with the Quaker relief in France, but as soon as I told Papa he said perhaps I ought to go to Somerville after all.
Ashley laughs. Imogen smiles, shaking her head in mock indignation.
—He was quite right, she protests. No doubt it’s easier on the nerves than war nursing, but I can hardly stand to see someone with abloody nose. I only wanted to do something useful. The trouble is that I’m simply not trained for anything. So I’ll have to learn more first.
—Starting with algebra?
Imogen wrinkles her nose.
—Good Lord, let’s not speak of it. If I suddenly dash behind a tree, it’s because I’ve seen my tutor, Mr. Blagdon. He thinks I’m in bed with fever.
They walk out of the gardens onto broad green lawns. Ashley looks at Imogen.
—I’ve the impression your people are different from mine. Certainly your sister seems an interesting woman.
Imogen shrugs. —I don’t know. Ellie and Charles do go around with a certain set that share certain ideas. But their marriage is rather ordinary. My parents are the same. Papa’s very conventional, it’s only that he married a woman nothing like him.
—You say he’s a Swede. But you were born here?
Imogen shakes her head. —Ellie and I were born in France. At the time, Papa was posted to the embassy in Paris, that’s where he met Mummy. Apparently it was quite a romance, though you’d never guess it to see them now. Papa was young and very dashing. Mummy was studying sculpture at the Académie Julian.
They pass into the shade of a huge willow and Imogen sits down beside its trunk. Ashley hesitates, then takes a seat beside her, not very close. He grabs a fistful of grass and tosses it into the air idly. He looks at her.
—I’m confused, Ashley admits. So are you English or not?
—That’s the question, isn’t it? I spent my first years in France. We moved to Berlin when I was five, and we only came here when I was nine. After that Mummy refused to leave England again. When it comes to languages, my French is good, mainly because I’ve kept it up by reading. My German is decent, but my Swedish is rather disappointing, and Ellie isn’t much better. I can speak Swedish if I have to, but I can’t write it to save my life. With English—
—You haven’t a foreign accent, Ashley interrupts. But you don’t speak the same as
—You have?
Imogen nods. —It’s a rather embarrassing tale. But you have to understand, Mr. Walsingham, there was so much confusion. No one would have raised an eyebrow if I wanted to study art or music like Mummy or Ellie. But I wanted to know things, to be a part of life and not simply imitate it. So I got it in my head that I must go to Somerville. There were endless rows with Papa, but in the end I went up for the Easter exams anyway. Naturally I hadn’t studied nearly enough. I could manage the English or Greek, but my Latin was weak, and maths was pure misery.
Imogen glances at Ashley, knitting her brow.
—You see, it just felt so wrong. Sneaking out to Oxford on my own when Mummy had practically bent over backwards to put Ellie in the Slade. And when I got there it was nothing like I’d imagined, the colleges practically empty save for cadets. The exam was four days, staying in the most frigid rooms at Oriel, for you know they’ve made Somerville a hospital. By the third morning it just seemed absurd, with the war on and rebellion in Ireland, that there I was quivering in bed at the thought of algebra—
—You didn’t finish them?
Imogen sighs, shaking her head. —But I’m going to take them again. I’ve had a few months to knock about London and think things over. That’s quite enough. Sooner or later one realizes it isn’t enough to be clever, to have even the finest ideas. One must do something, one must create some corner of goodness in the world, however small. For a few weeks I was convinced I should be a midwife with the Quaker relief in France, but as soon as I told Papa he said perhaps I ought to go to Somerville after all.
Ashley laughs. Imogen smiles, shaking her head in mock indignation.
—He was quite right, she protests. No doubt it’s easier on the nerves than war nursing, but I can hardly stand to see someone with abloody nose. I only wanted to do something useful. The trouble is that I’m simply not trained for anything. So I’ll have to learn more first.
—Starting with algebra?
Imogen wrinkles her nose.
—Good Lord, let’s not speak of it. If I suddenly dash behind a tree, it’s because I’ve seen my tutor, Mr. Blagdon. He thinks I’m in bed with fever.
They walk out of the gardens onto broad green lawns. Ashley looks at Imogen.
—I’ve the impression your people are different from mine. Certainly your sister seems an interesting woman.
Imogen shrugs. —I don’t know. Ellie and Charles do go around with a certain set that share certain ideas. But their marriage is rather ordinary. My parents are the same. Papa’s very conventional, it’s only that he married a woman nothing like him.
—You say he’s a Swede. But you were born here?
Imogen shakes her head. —Ellie and I were born in France. At the time, Papa was posted to the embassy in Paris, that’s where he met Mummy. Apparently it was quite a romance, though you’d never guess it to see them now. Papa was young and very dashing. Mummy was studying sculpture at the Académie Julian.
They pass into the shade of a huge willow and Imogen sits down beside its trunk. Ashley hesitates, then takes a seat beside her, not very close. He grabs a fistful of grass and tosses it into the air idly. He looks at her.
—I’m confused, Ashley admits. So are you English or not?
—That’s the question, isn’t it? I spent my first years in France. We moved to Berlin when I was five, and we only came here when I was nine. After that Mummy refused to leave England again. When it comes to languages, my French is good, mainly because I’ve kept it up by reading. My German is decent, but my Swedish is rather disappointing, and Ellie isn’t much better. I can speak Swedish if I have to, but I can’t write it to save my life. With English—
—You haven’t a foreign accent, Ashley interrupts. But you don’t speak the same as
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