‘Comrade,’ Sonya says, taking a step towards him so that the banner is pulled taut and Joan has to step forward too in order to keep her balance. ‘I have read Lenin in the original Russian. My father died in the Revolution. I don’t see why my pronunciation or where I place my arse, as you call it, is any concern of yours.’
The man looks at her, and for a moment he seems to be considering whether to believe her or not, but her accent is more exaggerated than usual and he evidently decides she is telling the truth because a slight redness spreads to his cheeks and his expression softens. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he says, nodding at her before turning his attention back to the platform.
Sonya gives him a flash of a smile, and Joan glances from one to the other, suddenly light-headed with this talk of comrades and the sense of having narrowly escaped the bus driver’s wrath. Once Joan is sure he is no longer paying them any attention, she leans across to Sonya. ‘I thought you said your father died after the Revolution.’
Sonya takes hold of the banner and shakes it where Joan’s movement has caused it to slacken. ‘He did. It just sounded better.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Joan says, annoyed with herself for having offended her friend. ‘I didn’t mean to . . . ’ She falls silent as a hush descends on the group at the instigation of a man who has taken to a wooden crate to address the crowd. He is wearing brown corduroy trousers, and there is something in his demeanour that marks him down as a student. His English accent is deep and rounded and his expression earnest, especially when he begins with a small recitation of poetry written by one of the fallen comrades from the International Brigade in Spain which makes Joan feel mildly embarrassed on his behalf. Once the poem is over, he launches into his speech, stressing the need to get tinned food over to Spain, and the possibility that if Spain falls to fascism then France and Britain could be next. Joan casts her eyes around, aware that she is looking for Leo but trying not to let on.
At last, she sees him standing just behind the makeshift platform, all his attention focused on the speaker. He nods occasionally, and claps along with the rest of the crowd when the speech is brought to a close. She watches as the speaker steps down from the platform and shakes Leo’s hand, the two of them conferring briefly before Leo steps onto the platform. His eyes fix momentarily on Sonya and he nods in acknowledgement of her presence, before allowing his glance to move to Joan. Her body flickers at the sudden memory of his lips on hers and she has to look away, but when she looks up again he is no longer looking at her. He is at the front of the platform, surveying the crowd. He does not lift his hands or ask for quiet; he simply waits.
‘I was born in Russia,’ he begins, ‘but for the most part I grew up in Germany.’ His style is calm and deliberate, as if he knows there is no need for rhetoric in what he is about to say. He will tell them a story and they will listen, not just because it is expected of them, but also because the story is one they need to know.
He tells them about the terrible depression in Germany after the last war, the growing violence on the streets as the decade progressed, tipped over into near-anarchy by the economic crash in 1929. He goes on to describe the Nazi demonstrations at Leipzig University when he was a student in the early 1930s, pointing to a scar on his lower lip and another on his forehead. He tells them how a Reichsbanner pin on his jacket had been spotted at one of these demonstrations, prompting a Stormtrooper to snatch his glasses from his face, smash them underfoot, and then fling him head first into the river.
He pauses, and the crowd rustles a little, shifting in preparation for what comes next. It is a noise she recognises from school assemblies; the sound of people listening, responding, but whereas her mind would occasionally wander during the scholarly prayers and notices, right now Joan finds that she cannot take her eyes from Leo, not for a second, not even when Sonya hisses her name, trying to get her to pull the banner taut, or when the bus driver steps back onto her foot in order to see better. She sees now what it is that Leo has that other people do not, the quality that sets him apart and makes people listen when he speaks: an absolute conviction that what he says is true.
He tells the crowd that the Nazis were voted into power a month after he was flung into that river, and not a single party voted against them. The disgust in his voice as he says this is almost palpable. Joan feels her neck prickle. He joined the Communist Party that same day and it was this affiliation which, not long after, forced him to leave his home and his country at the age of twenty after the Reichstag burnt down, taking with it the last vestiges of democracy still present in Germany, because by then Hitler had turned his sights to battering the communists first, and everyone else after.
‘This is fascism,’ Leo proclaims as he draws his speech to a close, not raising his voice but seeming to look into the face of each individual member of the crowd. ‘And when the time comes, each and every one of you standing here now will have to pick a side. We will all have to choose.’
He steps down from the platform to a wave of applause, and he holds up a hand to acknowledge the response his speech is receiving, but he does not smile. Sonya takes Joan’s side of the banner from her and rolls it up, evidently slightly peeved by Joan’s inability to hold it as diligently as she would have liked.
‘What did you think?’ Leo asks, coming over to them and placing his hand on Sonya’s shoulder.
Sonya looks at him, and there is something in her expression which reminds Joan that this is not just Leo’s story but Sonya’s too. ‘Very moving,’ she says, and her voice is lower than normal. Calmer, perhaps.
‘Moving?’ He frowns, evidently displeased with this response. ‘I wanted it to be rousing.’
Sonya rolls her eyes and hits him lightly on the arm. ‘You’re such a perfectionist, Leo. Can’t you hear them? I’d say they sound pretty roused.’
Leo tilts his head in reluctant agreement, and Sonya is interrupted by one of the young men Joan has seen her with on a few previous occasions. Surreptitiously, Leo slips his hand into Joan’s and pulls her aside. ‘Have you told Sonya anything?’ He pauses. ‘About yesterday, I mean.’
Joan shakes her head. ‘I was going to but . . . ’
‘Good,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t. Not yet. I’d rather tell her myself.’
Joan is taken a little by surprise at this, but she decides that, on balance, it’s a good sign that he considers it an event important enough to tell Sonya about himself. After all, Leo knows his cousin far better than she does. She glances over to Sonya who is now deep in conversation with the young man (Daniel, maybe), her hand on his arm and her head thrown back in sudden laughter. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘If you’d rather.’
‘It’s just that Sonya has a . . . ’ He pauses. ‘Well, let’s call it a protective streak.’
‘Protective?’ Joan almost laughs at the thought of this, incredulous that anyone might think Leo is in need of protection. His whole demeanour is so utterly untouchable that she cannot quite believe his heart could ever be in any real danger. Certainly not from someone like her.
Leo does not laugh. He frowns, and looks down to where his fingers are interlaced with Joan’s, their hands hidden from view by how close they are obliged to stand because of the push of the dispersing crowd. ‘Her mother didn’t die of flu, you know.’ He pauses. ‘Is that what she told you?’
‘Pneumonia.’
Leo nods. ‘Close enough.’
‘Then what was it?’
‘She killed herself. Hydrochloric acid.’ He unlaces his fingers gently and allows Joan’s hand to drop. He checks to see that Sonya is still engrossed in her conversation, which she is. ‘A particularly painful way to die.’
‘Why?’
Leo glances at her. ‘Never explain, never excuse. Isn’t that what you English say?’
Joan crinkles her forehead, not quite understanding.
Leo sighs. ‘Nobody knows why. Sonya found
her when she got home from school. She was only eight. That was when she came to live with us. She didn’t sleep for an entire year.’
‘Oh.’ Joan is silent for a moment. She feels a burning, choking sensation in her throat, and is embarrassed to find that her voice is a little tearful. ‘I’m not surprised she’s so protective of you in that case.’
Leo looks up at her. ‘Of me?’ He laughs suddenly and shakes his head as if Joan has said something monumentally silly and naive. And it is, in a way, although she will only know this later. Because Leo has stopped smiling now. ‘She’s not protective of me,’ he whispers, his lips soft against her cheek. ‘She’s protective of herself.’
MONDAY, 10.38 A.M.
Cambridge Borough Police
To: The Chief Constable
Sir,
I have to report that an Aid for Spain march organised by the Town & University Communist Party (advertised in the Cambridge Daily News) took place at the Cooperative Hall, Burleigh Street, Cambridge on Saturday 10 October, 1937. There were two speakers who received a great ovation from the hundred or so persons present. They were William MITCHELL of Jesus College, Cambridge, subject of previous reports to MI5, and a second speaker, who came across as deeply anti-fascist as a result of having spent some years in Germany during his youth, although he is not previously known to us.
It was this second speech which interested us most, the speaker using his personal history to inspire the crowd to great effect. We shall have a full identification report prepared on him within the next few days.
Overall, worth keeping an eye on, but I would not recommend taking any further steps against any speakers or attendees at this stage.
Nick takes the piece of paper from Joan’s hand. ‘What is this?’
‘It’s a police report of the march your mother has just described,’ Mr. Adams says. ‘It identifies Sir William Mitchell as the other speaker.’
‘I can see that,’ Nick snaps, ‘but what’s the point of it? What has it got to do with us now? You said you were coming to the point.’
Ms. Hart looks at him. ‘We’re building up a picture,’ she says. ‘As I explained to your mother at the start of this process, we need—’
‘But we haven’t seen any evidence. All you’ve shown us so far are police reports that make no mention of her. It’s intimidation. They’ve got nothing to do with her.’ He pauses. ‘And is there really any need for this camera?’
Ms. Hart purses her lips. ‘If you wish to make an official complaint then there are avenues available to you.’
‘Good. I shall be—’
‘Oh no, Nick,’ Joan interrupts, even though she knows it will irritate him. There is something heart-breaking about being defended by your own child, no matter how old they are. ‘It’s fine as it is. Please. Don’t make a fuss.’
She knows what he thinks: that he could sort all this out if only Joan would let him, just as he did after her husband died, flying out for the funeral and then refusing to leave Australia without a promise that she would come to visit. His life was in England by then, his friends and his career, and he was getting married in the autumn, and he didn’t understand why his mother refused to come. He begged her to attend the wedding, trying to entice her with the fact that he’d invited her sister’s children, his cousins whom he had first met at Aunt Lally’s funeral not long after he first moved to England, and didn’t Joan always say how much she longed to meet her nieces and nephew? Even though, of course, they were adults by then. Older than Nick.
She had told him it was out of the question: that she was too old; that she was scared of flying; that she had been away too long; but it wasn’t until he bought her an air ticket as a surprise and told her that he was going to fly out in order to accompany her back to England that she realised how much it meant to him, and so she had been left with no choice. She had to go, even if she was afraid.
Although she was not scared of flying, as she had told Nick. She was afraid of arriving, of having her passport inspected too closely.
And she was also scared that she would never want to go back.
She returned to Australia after Nick’s wedding but only stayed long enough to sell up her house and pack her belongings, and then she returned to England. She bought a small house in Sidcup, twenty minutes’ drive from Nick and Briony’s flat in Blackheath, lulled by how easy it had all seemed during that initial visit. Briony was pregnant by then, and Nick seemed delighted to have her nearby to ask advice on high chairs and prams and breast-feeding, forgetting that this was not something she would have known much about. It was a wonderful time, but at the same time, it was careless.
She should have known. She cannot allow Nick to stand up for her like this. ‘It’s fine, Nick.’
‘Mum,’ Nick reprimands. ‘Why do you always do this? Why won’t you let me look after you?’
Joan raises her hand to stop him and then lowers it, uncertain. She turns to Ms. Hart. ‘Could we have a moment alone, please? Just Nick and me.’
There is a brief pause while Ms. Hart considers the request. Mr. Adams is sitting in the corner of the room once more, tending to the video camera which has been set up on a stand with a large microphone attached. He is sitting in Joan’s favourite armchair and sipping tea from one of her old Che Guevara mugs, the symbolism of which is unlikely to be lost on him. He lowers the mug. ‘That’d be most irregular.’
Nick glares at him. ‘This whole thing is irregular. Have you told her what protection she is entitled to? She hasn’t even been given a legal representative.’
‘She refused. We did offer.’
‘You should have insisted.’
Mr. Adams hesitates, but then reaches up and pushes a button, causing the red light on the camera to be extinguished. He stands up and gestures to Ms. Hart to follow him. ‘You’ve got five minutes,’ he says.
Left alone, Joan turns to her son. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He is leaning forward and although he is whispering, his voice is urgent and strict. ‘Mum, you don’t have to do this. You can tell them as much about this Leo person as you like but it’s irrelevant. I know you haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not a crime to have had a Russian boyfriend at university, although it is a bit weird hearing about it.’
Joan opens her mouth and then closes it again. She cannot say the words.
Nick is looking at her, squeezing her hands in both of his. ‘Just tell them that you need to see some proper evidence, something more than this nonsense. Once we’ve got that then we can set about clearing your name. They’ll see they’ve made a mistake.’
There is a silence.
‘You can do that, can’t you?’
Joan looks down at her hands. Nick’s forehead is furrowed, concerned.
‘Or do you want me to say it? I can say it for you if you prefer.’
Slowly, Joan shakes her head. I can’t, she wants to say. I can’t. But the words will not come.
‘Mum?’
*
Until she has seen it for herself, Joan has no idea quite how much work is involved in belonging to any sort of left-leaning political group. She has no concept of the number of interminable meetings one is obliged to attend, the volume of books which must be read and discussed, argued over, waved aloft for emphasis and then thrown aside in disgust. She knows that both Leo and Sonya seem to spend a lot of time at the meetings, but she has assumed this is because they are enjoyable as well as necessary. She is not prepared for the seriousness that such meetings entail.
The first time she attends, she arrives with Leo. It has been several weeks now since that first kiss and Sonya has been informed, although not in any detail. Joan goes with him because she is intrigued to know what it is that draws him away from her so frequently, even though he warns her that she might not enjoy it. He leads her up a wooden
staircase in one of the old courtyards of Jesus College to a small room on the third floor and pushes open a red-painted wooden door to reveal a fug of cigarette smoke and a collection of perhaps ten people sitting on the floor and talking. Sonya is standing by the window, leaning back against a storm-coloured curtain. She is wearing a clinging blue dress and smoking a cigarette which she lowers from her lips as they enter, her eyes narrowing as she glances from Joan to Leo and back to Joan again, before smiling and holding out her arms in greeting.
‘Joan!’ she exclaims enthusiastically. ‘What are you doing here?’
Leo has taken off his jacket and is proceeding to hang it from the window-latch. ‘I brought her. I told you I might.’
Sonya looks at Leo and raises her cigarette to her lips once more, and mutters something in another language, German or Russian, Joan supposes, which causes Leo to respond with an abrupt noise which sounds more like a tut than a word.
Sonya rolls her eyes and exhales a puff of smoke as he turns away, and there is a momentary freeze in time before she smiles and takes Joan’s arm. ‘Come on,’ she says in her old conspiratorial manner, steering Joan across the room and indicating that she should sit on the floor next to Sonya’s perch on the window seat.
Joan hesitates, turning back to Leo to check that he does not object to her going off without him, but he is already shaking hands with a fair-haired man whom Joan recognises as William, the other speaker at the Aid for Spain march, and when he notices her waiting for him he merely waves her on. She feels her neck flush and glances around, hoping nobody observed the gesture. She is relieved that it seems to have gone largely unnoticed, until she turns to Sonya and sees a small wishbone mark furrowing her normally immaculate brow.
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