‘It’s not difficult. Just call Lally and tell her you’re sick so you can’t possibly go to dinner with her. She can’t expect you to drop everything just because she unilaterally decides to come and visit you.’
He is lying on his back. Her head is resting on his chest and his arms are wrapped around her. She knows she has to get up for work but right now it does not seem possible to untangle her body from his. Lying like this, their feet are exactly level, and her big toe is clasped between two of his so that they seem to fit together perfectly.
‘She didn’t. I invited her ages ago. And she’s already bought her train ticket.’ Joan hesitates. ‘I wanted her to come so if I cancel now it’d put her off ever coming again.’
Leo is silent, evidently unimpressed by the argument. ‘You can’t help it if you’re ill.’
‘And what if she finds out I wasn’t really ill?’
‘Then you’ll have to tell her you were love-sick.’
‘Is that what I am?’
‘What?’
She can hardly say the words. ‘Love-sick.’
‘Yes,’ he says abruptly, not looking at her. ‘And I’m little-comrade-sick. That’s a far worse affliction.’
His words are like a stab to the ribs, and yet they are not without feeling. She does not think she is being naive to believe, just a little, that he does love her really, and that her desire for him to declare his love in the stilted, old-fashioned manner she wants to hear so much is more ridiculous than his refusal to say it. Perhaps this is his way of saying it. They are words, after all. Words to store up and keep wrapped around her heart while he is away.
She forces herself to smile. ‘Aren’t you funny?’
‘I know.’ He clasps her toe tighter with his, and then leans forward to whisper to her. ‘Please.’
He does not usually beg. All right, this isn’t begging. And the situation is different. He is not here for long and she cannot skip work, so it has to be this evening. Surely it is not a bad thing to tell this small lie to her sister in the circumstances.
‘I still don’t really see why I can’t tell Lally the truth. I think she’d understand.’
‘You shouldn’t be seen with me,’ he says. ‘It’s just easier not to mention it to anyone at all, then you won’t forget.’
Joan forces herself to laugh even though she is momentarily confused by the seriousness of his tone. ‘You’re not actually dangerous, you know. It was just a routine internment. You said so yourself.’
‘Just a routine internment?’ he repeats.
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘Put it this way, if I had been doing my thesis on the pollination habits of bees I don’t think they’d have thought I was enough of a threat to send me to Canada.’
‘Oh.’
‘But that’s irrelevant now. At least I’m out and I can be of some help once I pick up my papers.’ He turns to her and kisses her. ‘Thanks for keeping them safe, Jo-jo.’
The room is dim, pinkish in the morning light, and filled with shimmering shadows. Leo is nuzzling into her neck. If this were a film, there would be music now, cigarettes and a softening of the light. There are none of these things, but there is something luxurious about this moment, a sense of time pausing, like the breath of wind on a leaf just before it snaps off and floats to earth.
Her body shifts, allowing his arm to slip around her so that his hand rests lightly on her lower back. ‘All right,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll phone her from work but I won’t mention you. Let’s meet in the restaurant at seven.’
‘Can’t you just tell me the basics? I only want to know what you’re doing.’ The restaurant is made up of rows of dark wood-panelled booths with red tablecloths. There is a low hum of chatter, and a long bar down the centre of the room decorated with glasses hanging from their handles above glittering bottles of liquor allows their conversation to be shielded from general view. Leo is holding her hand across the table and Joan smiles to think how anyone glancing in their direction might think what a nice couple they make, how close they seem, how intent on each other.
Joan shakes her head. It is the same conversation she has had with William, over and over again, and her answer is always the same. ‘I’m not telling you anything. It’s the rules.’
‘But why should it be a secret? I thought transparency was the West’s pride and joy.’
‘There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘And I’m on your side, in case you hadn’t noticed. Even Winston Churchill says so.’ If Leo is disconcerted by her refusal to tell him everything, he does not show it. He picks up the menu and glances at the wine list, most of which is crossed through where stocks have run out and cannot be replenished. ‘Red?’ he asks.
Joan glances at the menu. There are no prices listed but she knows it will be expensive. ‘Can you afford it?’
‘Special occasion.’ He does not look at her as he says this but turns around, lifting his hand to call the waiter over.
He orders a claret and they wait while the two wine glasses are solemnly set out on the table in front of them, and the wine is opened and poured into Leo’s glass first, swirled, sniffed, approved, and then into Joan’s.
‘So,’ Leo says when the waiter is out of earshot. ‘I guess it’s time I came clean about a few things.’ He takes his napkin and shakes it open, laying it smoothly across his lap. ‘First things first. I told you I left the Party, didn’t I?’
‘William told me. You didn’t.’
Leo nods. ‘Well, whoever. It’s not quite true in any case. I was asked to leave.’
‘How could they? You were interned for them—’
‘No.’ Leo’s expression is stern. ‘I wasn’t interned for them. It was for my own beliefs. And I wasn’t expelled either. It was suggested to me that I temporarily renounce my membership.’
‘Suggested by whom?’
He does not look up. The waiter reappears with a plate of doughy white bread, and there is a lull as it is set out. Leo orders venison and mash for both of them.
‘But I haven’t decided what I want yet.’
Leo waves his hand dismissively. ‘You’ll like it. It’s the best thing on the menu.’
‘In your opinion.’
‘Yes.’
The waiter leaves. Leo continues where he left off. ‘Instructed by Comintern. I can be more useful, you see, if I’m not officially associated with them. I can continue to work on my thesis at the University of Montreal and not be viewed as a security risk.’ He glances at her. ‘Any questions so far?’
Yes, she has one glaring question but she does not know how to ask it because he has just imparted the information so casually that she feels she will look silly if she asks exactly what he means by being ‘useful.’ But she is not sure she wants to know the answer to this question and so she starts with an easier one. ‘Did you tell William to take me out to the cinema?’
Leo takes a piece of bread and lays it on his plate. ‘Yes.’
‘But you know I don’t like him.’
‘I wanted to make sure you were in the right place.’ He grins. ‘He says you’re impermeable.’
‘I am,’ Joan says, although the realisation that this is the source of William’s interest causes her to flinch, remembering how she had mistaken this interest for something else. ‘That reminds me. There was something he said I should ask you. About him.’
‘Yes?’
‘I said I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about us going out to the cinema . . . ’ She stops, embarrassed by the smile slowly spreading across Leo’s face. ‘What? That’s exactly how he reacted too.’
‘Oh Jo-jo, how do you manage to stay so innocent?’ Leo leans towards her and whispers across the table. ‘William’s not interested in girls.’
Joan looks at him quizzically. ‘What do you mean
? Is he . . .?’ She stops. She does not know how to phrase it. Describing him as a homosexual seems too much like a condition to be an appropriate description. She has a sudden recollection of seeing Rupert with his hand resting on William’s arm at one of the meetings, not just for a moment, but for an entire meeting. ‘And Rupert too?’
‘Ah, my sweet little comrade. Give her enough time and she’ll get there in the end.’
Joan looks away, irritated by his patronising tone. ‘I just hadn’t thought about it.’ She considers this for a moment before filing it away at the back of her mind. ‘Anyway, you were saying you wanted to make sure I was in the right place. The right place for what?’
‘That’s the second thing. I need your help. That’s why I’m here.’
Joan glances up at him. She feels her face flaring hot and then cold. ‘I thought you were here—’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he interrupts. ‘To collect my papers.’
Is it possible that he doesn’t realise how much his words hurt her? Her whole body prickles with the sting of them. ‘I meant, I thought you came back because you wanted to see me,’ she whispers. ‘I could have just posted your papers, after all.’
‘Well, that’s the third thing.’ His expression changes when he says this, a hint of affection flickering across the surface of it and then disappearing just as quickly. ‘How could I go for so long without seeing my little comrade?’
Joan smiles but she is suddenly unconvinced. Her mind scuttles, aware of a certain unease insinuating itself into the conversation.
‘So will you help?’ He is looking at her now, his expression serious. ‘We need designs, documents, research.’
She narrows her eyes to look at him more closely. ‘How did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘About the . . . ’ she looks around and covers her mouth with her hand before continuing, ‘ . . . about the project?’
‘It doesn’t matter. The point is Churchill promised in the House of Commons that all technological advances would be shared between Britain and the USSR. He’s not keeping that promise.’ He sits back. ‘This isn’t about you. Your feelings are irrelevant here. This is about saving the Revolution. It’s about saving the world. Sharing what you know about the project with Russia is the only way to ensure that we’re in with a chance. It’s as simple as that.’
Joan stares at him. Surely he is not asking what she thinks he is. He can’t be. ‘You want me to smuggle the research out? You want me to steal?’
‘Not steal,’ he says in a softer voice, as if he can hear what she is thinking. ‘Replicate. Share.’
Joan doesn’t move. She can’t believe he is asking her to do this. The thought flashes across her mind that this is why he has written to her all this time, because he had plans for her. Because he thinks he can persuade her to do whatever he asks.
She shakes this thought from her head. Surely not, she thinks. Nobody can be that cynical, that forward-thinking.
His hand is on hers across the table, his voice quiet and urgent. ‘Don’t you see, Jo-jo? This is your chance to do something for the world, to make a difference.’
‘I didn’t know you were so . . . ’ She stops. She was going to say she didn’t know he was so committed to the cause that he would actually do something like this, but she realises as she is about to say it that, if she did not know this, it was through her own stupidity. He has always been quite open about how much it means to him, so why does it come as a surprise to have it confirmed? Did she just never really believe he meant what he said? She sees that he is still waiting for an answer. ‘No, Leo,’ she whispers. ‘I won’t do it.’
Leo’s expression is one of studied patience. ‘We’ve been through this before, Jo-jo. Being loyal to a country is a false loyalty. It doesn’t mean anything. You know that. Vertical divisions between countries only exist in the imagination. It’s the horizontal divisions that count. And as members of the international proletariat, we must defend and help the Soviet state by any means possible.’
Joan shakes her head as he speaks. She knows it is part of his charm, this ability to persuade people that they want to think like him, that they should see the world exactly as he sees it. ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘I’m not at one of your rallies now. It’s not my fault my hands aren’t worn down by years at the Soviet coalface. I didn’t choose to be born in St. Albans but I don’t see why my loyalties should be any less legitimate than yours.’
‘This isn’t about where you were born. There are no sides any longer, not once this thing exists. This isn’t the sort of weapon only one side should have. A whole nation can be destroyed in a single swoop. It’s inhumane.’
His persistence is astounding. Surely he must have known she would not do this. She is too honest, too loyal. If he does not know this about her, how can he know her at all? She looks up at him. ‘There must be a reason why Churchill isn’t sharing it with Stalin. Perhaps he is, for all we know.’
This is the wrong thing to say. She knows this as she says it, and she sees Leo’s expression harden but, for the first time, she doesn’t care.
‘Don’t you see? Churchill wants the Germans in Moscow. There are thirty thousand Russians dying on the Eastern Front every week and it’s the only thing keeping Hitler out of Downing Street.’
Joan looks down. ‘I’m sorry, Leo. I won’t do it.’
Leo shakes his head. ‘I expected more from you, Jo-jo. I thought you, of all people, would be able to see that there’s more to loyalty than being true to an arbitrary place or state.’
Joan feels her chest swell and her eyes burn but she does not move. ‘Stalin didn’t think so when he signed the pact.’
Leo leans forward, his hands pressed flat against the table and his expression suddenly hard and unreadable. She knows she has scratched a nerve. ‘That was tactical.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’
There is a pause. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I’d have thought the Soviets would be developing their own weapons?’
‘They are. But it’s taking too long. They’re starting from a disadvantage.’ He sighs and reaches once more across the table. ‘Please, Jo-jo. Don’t you see? You’re in a unique position here to change the history of the world.’
Joan crosses her arms across her chest. ‘Why must you always be so dramatic? You’re worse than Sonya.’
‘Because it’s the truth.’
‘Well, I won’t do it. You shouldn’t have asked. I wish you hadn’t.’
Leo sighs. He sees that the matter is, for the moment, closed between them. The waiter brings their dinner and they eat in silence, the meat tender and perfectly done, the mash creamy and light.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ he says, his voice flat in an unenthusiastic attempt to change the subject.
‘It’s all right.’ Joan will not allow him the satisfaction of thinking she is enjoying it. The taste is bitter, metallic, and quite suddenly she knows that this is it. This is the end, right now. She swallows a mouthful of food, feeling the lump of it in her throat. Her chest feels tight and constricted. ‘I’m not very hungry,’ she says in a voice which is intended to be both strong and offhand at the same time.
Leo looks at her, and then picks up his fork, reaches over, and swipes half the venison from her plate. Joan’s mouth drops open but Leo does not flinch. ‘Couldn’t let it go to waste.’
The waiter returns to refill their wine glasses, pouring the luxurious blood-red swirls of liquid into the silence. When he has gone, Leo raises his glass. He clears his throat in a conciliatory manner. ‘A toast, anyway.’
Joan shakes her head. How can he ask this of her and then, when she refuses, just carry on as if it was a perfectly reasonable request? As if nothing has happened. Why does he not even apologise when he sees how much he has upset her?
She wants to stand up, spi
n on her heel and fling the door of the restaurant shut behind her so that the window cracks and shatters. She wants to make a scene. She wants him to run after her, catching her in his arms and kissing her in a blaze of sunlight like a princess in a fairy tale, and declare that he loves her and has loved her all along. She wants to force the words out of him.
There is a pounding, aching silence. Joan raises her eyes to meet his and, in that moment, she realises it is hopeless. It always has been. For over a year she has waited for him, dreamt of him, written to him, and in all that time he has never once told her he loves her because—the reason is suddenly glaringly, blindingly obvious—he does not. Or not enough. Not in the way she wants. He is not interested in love. Emotion without intellect, he has called it before. Why did she not see it then? How can she have been so blind? She realises now that he will never hold her in his arms and kiss her like a princess in a fairy tale because that is not Leo’s kind of fairy tale. His fairy tales are fields of spun gold, full of barn yields and statistics.
Joan raises her glass numbly, suddenly stricken with the knowledge that he has not come to see her because he loves her but to persuade her to do this for The Struggle. Because he thinks, because they all think, that she will do anything he asks.
‘To the future,’ Leo says.
Joan shakes her head. Her chest aches as she holds out her glass to his. She had not known it could hurt this much. ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’
‘Oh, come on, Jo-jo.’
She wants to put her face in her hands and sob. She shakes her head. She will not cry. Not yet. She will later—she will lie on her bed and curl herself into a ball and her body will be racked with the strength of her despair—but she will not cry in front of him. ‘To the past,’ she murmurs.
‘Ah no,’ he says, and Joan registers the familiar flash of his lenses as he smiles at her. ‘There’s the difference between us. I don’t feel like this is the end. You’ll come round. I know it.’
Red Joan Page 16