Chapter Three

      All the way to Cambridge in the train Anna wondered what it would be like. What would they do? What would Max’s friends be like? Would she be expected to talk to them and if so, what on earth would she say? The weather had turned cold again and soon after the train had left London it began to drizzle. Anna sat staring out at the soggy fields and the cattle sheltering under dripping trees and almost wished she hadn’t come. Supposing nobody liked her? And indeed, why should they like her? Nobody else did much, she thought morosely – at least not people of her own age. The girls at Miss Metcalfe’s had not thought much of her. They had never elected her as a prefect, or as dormitory captain, or even as dining-room table monitor. For a brief time there had been talk of making her guinea-pig orderly, but even that had come to nothing. And Max’s friends were boys. How did one talk to boys?

      “Not a very nice day,” said a voice, echoing her thoughts. It belonged to a tweedy woman in the seat opposite. Anna agreed that it wasn’t and the woman smiled. She was wearing a hat and expensive, sensible shoes like the mothers at Miss Metcalfe’s on Parents’ Day.

      “Going up to Cambridge for the weekend?” said the woman. Anna said, “Yes,” and the woman went at once into a description of the social delights of what she called the “varsity”. Her three brothers had been there years ago, and two of her cousins, and they had all invited her for weekends – a gel could have such fun. Theatre parties! cried the tweedy woman, and May balls, and picnics at Grantchester, and everywhere you went so many, many delightful young men!

      Anna’s heart sank farther at this account but she comforted herself with the thought that there could hardly be May balls in March and that Max would surely have warned her if he had planned any grand goings-on.

      “And where do you come from, my dear?” asked the tweedy woman, having exhausted her reminiscences.

      Normally when people asked her where she came from Anna said, “London,” but this time for some inexplicable reason she found herself saying, “Berlin,” and immediately regretted it.

      The woman had stopped in her tracks.

      “Berlin?” she cried. “But you’re English!”

      “No,” said Anna, feeling like Mama at the Refugee Relief Organisation. “My father is an anti-Nazi German writer. We left Germany in 1933.”

      The tweedy woman tried to work it out. “Anti-Nazi,” she said. “That means you’re against Hitler.”

      Anna nodded.

      “I should never have thought it,” said the tweedy woman. “You haven’t got a trace of an accent. I could have sworn that you were just a nice, ordinary English gel.”

      This was a compliment and Anna smiled dutifully, but the woman was suddenly struck by another thought.

      “What about the war?” she cried. “You’re in enemy country!”

      Damn, thought Anna, why did I ever start this?

      She tried to explain as patiently as she could. “We’re against Germany,” she said. “We want the English to win.”

      “Against your own country?” said the woman.

      “We don’t feel that it is our country any more,” began Anna, but the tweedy woman had become offended with the whole conversation.

      “I could have sworn you were English,” she said reproachfully and buried herself in a copy of Country Life.

      Anna stared out at the grey landscape rolling past the spattered window. It was ridiculous, but she felt put out. Why couldn’t she just have said she came from London as usual? Max would never have made such a mistake. This whole expedition is going to be a disaster, she thought.

      When the train finally drew into the station at Cambridge her worst suspicions seemed to be confirmed. She stood on the platform with an icy wind blowing straight down it, and Max was nowhere to be seen. But then he appeared from behind a corner, breathless and with his gown flying behind him.

      “Sorry,” he said. “I had a lecture.” He looked at the scarlet coat which Mrs Bartholomew had lent her. “That’s very dashing,” he said. “Judy’s or Jinny’s?”

      “Jinny’s,” said Anna and felt better.

      He picked up her case and hustled her out of the station.

      “I hope you’ve brought a thick woollen nightie as well,” he said. “Your lodgings are somewhat cool.”

      They turned out to have no heating at all – a vast, icy cave of a room – but it was not far from his own and the landlady promised to put a hot-water bottle in her bed at night. While Anna was tidying herself she tried to imagine the tweedy woman spending a night there and decided that her Cambridge weekends must have been very different. Max paid for the room – bed and breakfast cost ten shillings – and then they set off to walk through the town.

      By now the rain had stopped, but there were still patches of water everywhere. The sky above the rooftops was wet and grey with shambling clouds which thinned occasionally to shimmer in half-hearted sunlight. They crossed the marketplace, picking their way between shoppers and dripping tarpaulins, and then they were suddenly engulfed by a crowd of undergraduates. The High Street was filled with them. They were splashing through the puddles on their bicycles and pushing along the pavement in noisy groups. There were black gowns everywhere, and long striped scarves, and everyone seemed to be talking, or shouting greetings to friends across the road. Several of them waved to Max, who seemed to be very much at home among them, and Anna thought what fun it must be to belong here.

      Every so often, between greetings, he pointed out a landmark through the turmoil – a building, an ancient bit of wall, a cloistered passage where, centuries ago, someone had walked, a seat where someone else had written a poem. The stone of which they were made was the same colour as the sky and looked as though it had been there forever.

      In the doorway of a tea-shop Max was accosted by two gowned figures.

      “Discovered at last!” cried one. “And with a strange woman!”

      “A strange scarlet woman,” said the other, pointing to Anna’s coat.

      “Don’t be an idiot,” said Max. “This is my sister, Anna. And these are George and Bill who are having lunch with us.”

      Anna remembered hearing about George who had been to school with Max. He was a good foot taller than herself, so that she would have had to throw back her head to see what he looked like. Bill’s face was more within range and looked pleasant and ordinary. They pushed their way through the crowded shop to a table in the corner. As they sat down George’s face sank into view and turned out to be cheerful, with an engaging look of permanent astonishment.

      “Are you really his sister?” he asked. “I mean, if you had to be somebody’s sister, surely you could have found someone better than old Max here?”

      “With his lecherous ways—”

      “And his boots so stout—”

      “And his eyes which swivel round about—”

      “And the horrible way his ears stick out!” George finished triumphantly.

      Anna stared at them in confusion. Had they just made that up? Or was it some kind of English verse that everyone except her knew?

      George was leaning towards her.

      “Surely, Anna – I trust I may call you Anna – surely you could