‘What happened?’ she asks.
‘You stepped out in front of a bicycle.’ He grins. ‘The cyclist probably came off worse though.’
‘Oh no!’ she exclaims, glancing around. A little way down the road she sees a pale-haired man tugging a bicycle over to the kerb. He is rubbing his head with one hand and holding a cloth cap in the other. He straightens his jacket, unwinds his scarf and then reties it. The chain is dangling from the back wheel of his bike and the handlebars are no longer properly aligned.
‘Is he hurt?’
The man turns and nods at Leo, who makes an apologetic gesture with his hands in response.
‘He’s all right.’ Leo grins. He picks up her satchel and then holds out his hand to her. ‘Come on, then.’
Joan hesitates. She takes hold of Leo’s proffered hand and allows him to help her to her feet. Her legs feel weak and shaky, and there is a fizz of heat along her spine. She holds his hand for a little longer than necessary, and then she looks him up and down and smiles.
He accompanies her to the science faculty. It is only a short walk along the narrow pavement next to Queen’s College and then a shortcut along Botolph Lane. Joan’s body is still stinging from the impact and her head feels light, but on the whole, she considers that she hasn’t come off too badly. ‘I’m sorry for causing such a fuss,’ she says as they start to walk. ‘I don’t know why I stepped out without looking.’
Leo looks at her, his eyes narrowing a little as he does. ‘Well, if I hadn’t called out to you it would never have happened. And I wanted to find you anyway. I only turned away for a minute yesterday and when I looked back you’d both vanished. Like two pumpkins in a fairy tale.’
Joan laughs. ‘Or princesses,’ she corrects him, surprised that Leo would make a reference like that. He seems too serious to be interested in fairy tales, too distracted by those heavy red books he is carrying under his arm to have much time for fanciful narratives.
But it turns out that Leo Galich has a thing about fairy tales. He likes them. He tells her that they remind him of home, of the clear mirrored lake beside his family’s old summer house in Russia before they moved to Germany, of the wide fields spread out like a floor under the great ceiling of sky. Grain and birdsong and too-hot summers followed by knee-deep winters. It is impossible to be Russian, he tells her, and not have a thing about fairy tales.
‘Communism,’ he continues, after a long period of unspoken thought, ‘now there’s a fairy tale. The whole of the Russian revolution was built on a fairy tale.’
‘I thought it was because of the war. And not enough bread.’
Leo hesitates at this interruption, and she notices the crooked whiteness of his teeth as he replies. ‘That as well.’
‘So those heavy books you’re carrying are just a decoy, are they?’ Joan asks. ‘They look serious but they’re really full of pumpkins and princesses.’
Leo frowns and then sees that she is joking and gives a short laugh of surprise. He looks at her, his head tilted as he seems to appraise her. ‘Sonya said you were different from the others,’ he says at last, breaking the silence.
‘Did she?’ Joan asks, flattered to hear this indirect compliment.
He nods, and gestures towards the books he is carrying. ‘They’re documents of numbers actually. Not very interesting reading, unless you know what you’re looking for.’
‘And what are you looking for?’
He glances at her. ‘Proof.’
‘Proof?’
‘That it works.’
‘Communism?’
‘Yes. Or at least, that the Soviet system works.’
Joan looks up at him in surprise. ‘And does it?’
‘Put it this way, Soviet Russia is the only state in the world to offer full employment. There are no pockets of chronic unemployment like you find in Jarrow or South Wales. The British government claims that unemployment is nothing more than a minor blip in the system, a temporary malfunction of the markets. But that’s not true.’
He stops, taking Joan’s arm and turning her to look at him. She feels the warmth of his fingers against her skin, and she has to bite her lip to force herself to concentrate on what he is saying. ‘Well, if it’s not that, what is it caused by?’
Leo nods, evidently pleased with the question. ‘Short-sightedness. Marx showed years ago that unemployment is an inevitable by-product of capitalism, but it suits the government to allow it to happen. It’s a way of allowing the market to right itself without them having to make any effort.’
‘So do you think Britain should be doing what America’s doing? A sort of British New Deal with public works projects?’
Leo shakes his head. He taps the books under his arm. ‘If a society is properly planned and organised there will never be any unemployment. Every person will be able to contribute. No waste, no surplus. I mean, just look at the figures. Industrial production in the USSR is six and a half times greater this year than it was in 1928. Capital accumulation is nine times as great. The numbers are little short of miraculous. And it’s all because the whole Soviet system was planned in advance on an industrial scale.’ He grins. ‘It works. It’s a fairy tale.’
Joan glances up at him, wondering how Stalin fits into this picture of social perfection. ‘And no fairy tale would be complete without a wolf. Is that it?’
‘That’s a separate point. The wolf isn’t really necessary to the story. The system just has to be shown to work first.’
‘So he could be left out of the sequel?’
Leo smiles although his expression does not give anything away. ‘Potentially, yes,’ he says, and then falls silent. They are approaching the science faculty now, and the sudden awkwardness that has arisen is alleviated by the sound of an aeroplane droning above them. They both glance upwards, but the noise is too loud for conversation.
Leo looks at Joan and grins. ‘Do you know the Russian word for aeroplane?’ he asks once it has passed.
‘No.’
‘Samolet. It means ‘magic carpet.’ Don’t you think that’s a wonderful description?’
Joan smiles. As he speaks she gazes up at him, noticing that the bright skin around his eyes appears almost luminous, and for a brief moment she finds herself wondering if his whole body glows like that.
MONDAY, 8.42 A.M.
There is a knock at the front door of the house, a pause, and then another knock. Joan’s eyelids are heavy and her neck twinges painfully as she tries to sit up. She sees that it is light outside, which means she must have slept through the night, uninterrupted. How many years has it been since she last managed that? She presses her palms against her eyes and holds them there, as if by blocking out the light for long enough she might be able to force the memories back inside and erase yesterday entirely.
Another knock. She reaches for her glasses, holds them up to her eyes, and glances at the digital clock next to her bed. They are early. She should have set her alarm.
She lifts her head and pushes herself into a seated position. Her body aches as she moves, her joints stiff and swollen. She is still wearing her clothes from the day before, not having had the energy to change for bed after being escorted home the previous evening by Ms. Hart and Mr. Adams. Her bus pass and passport were confiscated and the electronic tag was fitted to her ankle, and she had been too tired to protest that such precautions were unnecessary. She has been placed under curfew in the evenings and is expected to cooperate with daily questioning by MI5 until further notice. Or, more specifically, until her name is released to the House of Commons on Friday.
And then what?
She does not want to think about this. Not now. Not yet. She must stay strong for the day which lies ahead. She must not let anything slip.
There is another ring at the door, and then an impatient knock.
She slides her feet into the p
air of sheepskin boots bought for her by Nick’s wife, which are apparently fashionable as well as comfortable, and pulls her dressing gown on over her clothes. It is cold, and she would like it to be fully apparent that she has just woken up. She will need a few more minutes to get herself together before the questioning begins again. They are interviewing her at home today, having agreed to bring their equipment to the house as a concession to her age, even though she insisted that she was perfectly well enough to travel if they wouldn’t mind picking her up from the end of the road as she doesn’t want the neighbours gossiping. Or she could get the bus, only then there’s the question of her bus pass.
But they had insisted on coming to the house, and now she supposes that it could actually work in her favour. It would certainly be less disconcerting to be able to see Mr. Adams’ face, rather than know that he is watching her from behind a dark screen. Her only concern is what people might think of all this coming and going with briefcases and cameras. Not because she cares what anyone thinks, but because someone might think to alert Nick, and she doesn’t want that.
She runs a brush lightly through her hair. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and puts the brush down. There is no benefit in making herself look any better than she feels. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she whispers to her reflection, her eyes sad and unblinking, her brow furrowed in confusion; practising. She takes a deep breath and turns away, ready now to descend the stairs and open the door, but before she has crossed the landing she hears a key slip into the lock, turn, and the latch click open.
‘Mum?’ a voice calls. ‘Mum? Are you there?’
Joan feels her breath catch in her throat. Nick. Oh God. What is he doing here? For one thing, he is not allowed in. It is one of the Home Secretary’s conditions: all visitors must be vetted before entering. But this is not Joan’s main concern. He must not be here when they arrive. He cannot find out what is going on.
Joan walks to the top of the stairs, her legs suddenly weak and unsteady, and she peers over the bannister. Nick is standing in the hallway, wiping his feet on the mat and frowning. He is forty-nine years old, tall and slim with a crop of silver hair. He used to have a beard but when he took silk he decided it would add gravitas to his appearance in court to be clean-shaven, and so he shaved it off, and Joan agrees that he was right. It does make him look more serious. Nicholas Stanley, QC. She has heard him present himself in such a manner before, and each time she feels a shiver of pride at what her son has achieved.
Just pretend, Joan thinks. Pretend nothing is happening. Act normal. Maybe MI5 will be late and he will already have left before they arrive. Perhaps it’s just a routine visit, Nick being conscientious in this regard, calling in on her every so often just to check, especially if he has not seen her over the weekend. To check what, he does not say: that she is eating properly, that the house is clean, that she has not dropped dead on the bathmat. The normal catalogue of concerns regarding eighty-five-year-old women. They are not long visits. If she can just get him out of the house quickly enough . . .
‘There you are.’ He looks up, taking off his overcoat to reveal his usual courtroom attire of black suit and smart black shoes. ‘Are you okay? I’ve just had the strangest phone call.’
Joan feels her heart cramp. He knows! ‘Oh?’ she says, trying to make her voice light, as if she could not possibly know what he is going to say next.
‘It was Keith, one of the solicitors at the Crown Prosecution Service. He heard a rumour.’ He stops and runs his hand through his hair. He is jumpy and agitated. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be telling you this. I just wanted to warn you in case anyone came round. I wouldn’t want you to be shocked.’
Joan looks down at her feet. She wants to be downstairs, on solid ground, not hovering at the top of the stairs. She grasps the bannister, and descends slowly, deliberately, while her son continues to talk.
‘It’s probably just a case of mistaken identity but we need to get it cleared up. This rumour, I mean. And then we might even have a case for libel, depending on how far it’s gone. But we’ll think about that later. It may be easier to drop it.’
At the bottom of the stairs Joan hesitates, reaching out to put her arms around her son. She wants to feel the warmth of him, the strength of him. She doesn’t know what to say. She wonders what she would say if she didn’t already know. What would be the convincing thing to do? She crinkles her forehead as if confused. ‘What rumour?’ she whispers.
‘It’s ridiculous.’ He bends to take off his shoes, just as she always made him do when he was a boy.
Joan turns away from him and starts to walk towards the kitchen. How does this Keith fellow know anything? They said they weren’t going to tell anyone. Not yet.
The kettle, she thinks. She must fill the kettle. And then she must make toast. She needs to settle her stomach.
He follows her to the kitchen in paisley-patterned socks where Joan’s three potted geraniums remain untouched next to the ashtray bearing the charred remains of the solicitor’s letter and William’s obituary. She picks up the plant pots and moves them to the windowsill, placing them in a neat line, and then she tips the blackened pieces of paper from the ashtray into the bin. ‘He said they’ve found two old Soviet spies. They started questioning the first one last week, but he died rather suddenly. Probably suicide, Keith said, but it’s impossible to force an autopsy when there’s no actual proof of any wrongdoing. Or no admissible proof.’
She takes a cloth and wipes the soil and ash from the table. There is mud on the floor too but she cannot think about that now. Her hands shake as she takes the butter out of the fridge. She does not want to think about William. She knows she has never mentioned their connection to Nick, even though he had become quite a public figure in the last few decades and Nick would have been interested. There is no reason for Nick to suspect that she might have any connection with him.
‘Of course, they asked his brother to authorise an autopsy but he refused. The families generally do. Said he should be allowed to rest in peace. So that’s why . . . ’
Joan blocks Nick’s voice out of her head and turns on the grill. She has never got the hang of that toaster. Why have a toaster when you have a grill anyway?
‘Mum, are you listening? The Home Office is preparing a case against the second spy now. They’re hoping this will prove their suspicions about the first one—the one who died—so they can get their autopsy.’
Jam. A knife. Fill the kettle. Teabags in the teapot.
‘I know it’s ridiculous,’ Nick continues. ‘He said he couldn’t really tell me anything, but he said your name had come up. Linked to your war work, when you were a secretary.’
Slice the bread. Be firm and decisive. Lay it on the rack. Don’t turn around. Don’t let him see.
‘Mum, are you listening?’
Slide the bread under the grill. That smell. How she would miss that smell if . . .
She feels Nick’s hand on her shoulder. Her body is being turned away from the grill, slowly, slowly, until she is facing her son. The water in the kettle is bubbling furiously and her hands shake as he takes hold of them and squeezes them tightly together.
‘Mum,’ he says. ‘They think it’s you.’
There is a silence. For a brief moment, Joan is reminded of Nick as a seven-year-old boy, marching home from school to announce the incredible piece of information he had heard that day of where babies came from. She remembers the look of horror on his face as Joan verified that yes, this was indeed true, and she also remembers the terrible feeling this revelation aroused in her because it meant that the time had come. They had agreed that they would never lie to him about where he came from, that they would tell him as soon as he asked. So when Nick pressed his finger against Joan’s stomach and asked if he came from in there, Joan had known that she would have to take her little boy onto her knee and hu
g him tightly, and tell him that there was another mummy out there who loved him very much, but that other mummy had been too young to keep him, and so they had chosen him, chosen him above all others, because as soon as they had seen him they had known he was the most perfect thing they had ever seen.
Joan remembers Nick’s small face, open-mouthed and furrowed, as he took in this piece of information. And she remembers the phone call from school the following morning requesting her to come and collect him because he had punched a boy in the face and would not say sorry. She had held Nick while he cried, until finally he confessed that he had punched the boy for laughing at him because he didn’t have a real mother.
Joan had regretted telling him then, thinking that perhaps they should have waited until he was eighteen as advised by the adoption agency, although this had seemed deceitful somehow. She had wondered if there might have been a gentler way of phrasing it, if her husband would have done it better. She does not know. Perhaps. But whenever she does think of this moment, there is always one aspect of it she remembers with absolute clarity: that last gasp of innocence as Nick’s finger was pressed into her stomach, his face questioning, and the breath of time just before she answered the question, when it was still possible that she could have told her cherished little boy something different, something easy; that yes, he was all theirs, and yes, he had come from in there.
She looks at him now. ‘I know,’ she whispers.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were here yesterday. They’ll be here again today.’
‘Who?’
‘MI5.’
Nick’s mouth drops open.
‘I’ve been put under a Control Order. Technically, you shouldn’t be here without permission.’
‘You’re under a Control Order? Why? They’re for terrorists about to be deported, not for you.’ He puts his arms around her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Joan cannot speak. Her body seems to melt with sorrow and she clings to her son, pressing her face into his shoulder so that she doesn’t have to look at him when she speaks. ‘I didn’t want to bother you.’
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