by Ken Follett
"You must marry an educated woman, a schoolteacher or a trained nurse."
The trouble was that she was right. Lloyd liked Ruby, but he would never love her. She was pretty enough, and intelligent, too, and Lloyd was as vulnerable as the next man to a curvy figure, but still he knew she was not right for him. Worse, Grandmam had put her wrinkled old finger precisely on the reason: Ruby's outlook was restricted, her horizons narrow. She was not exciting. Not like Daisy.
"That's enough women's chatter," Granda said. "Billy, tell us the news from Spain."
"It's bad," said Billy.
All Europe was watching Spain. The left-wing government elected last February had suffered an attempted military coup backed by Fascists and conservatives. The rebel general Franco had won support from the Catholic Church. The news had struck the rest of the continent like an earthquake. After Germany and Italy would Spain, too, fall under the curse of Fascism?
"The revolt was botched, as you probably know, and it almost failed," Billy went on. "But Hitler and Mussolini came to the rescue, and saved the insurrection by airlifting thousands of rebel troops from North Africa as reinforcements."
Lenny put in: "And the unions saved the government!"
"That's true," Billy said. "The government was slow to react, but the trade unions led the way in organizing workers and arming them with weapons they seized from military arsenals, ships, gun shops, and anywhere else they could find them."
Granda said: "At least someone is fighting back. Until now the Fascists have had it all their own way. In the Rhineland and Abyssinia, they just walked in and took what they wanted. Thank God for the Spanish people, I say. They've got the guts to say no."
There was a murmur of agreement from the men around the walls.
Lloyd again recalled that Saturday afternoon in Cambridge. He, too, had let the Fascists have it all their own way. He seethed with frustration.
"But can they win?" said Granda. "Weapons seem to be the issue now, isn't it?"
"Aye," said Billy. "The Germans and the Italians are supplying the rebels with guns and ammunition, as well as fighter planes and pilots. But no one is helping the elected Spanish government."
"And why the bloody hell not?" said Lenny angrily.
Cara looked up from the cooking range. Her dark Mediterranean eyes flashed disapproval, and Lloyd thought he glimpsed the beautiful girl she had once been. "None of that language in my kitchen!" she said.
"Sorry, Mrs. Williams."
"I can tell you the inside story," Billy said, and the men went quiet, listening. "The French prime minister, Leon Blum--a socialist, as you know--was all set to help. He's already got one Fascist neighbor, Germany, and the last thing he wants is a Fascist regime on his southern border too. Sending arms to the Spanish government would enrage the French right wing, and French Catholic socialists too, but Blum could withstand that, especially if he had British support and could say that arming the government was an international initiative."
Granda said: "So what went wrong?"
"Our government talked him out of it. Blum came to London and our foreign secretary, Anthony Eden, told him we would not support him."
Granda was angered. "Why does he need support? How can a socialist prime minister let himself be bullied by the conservative government of another country?"
"Because there's a danger of a military coup in France, too," said Billy. "The press there is rabidly right-wing, and they're whipping their own Fascists into a frenzy. Blum can fight them off with British support--but perhaps not without."
"So it's our Conservative government being soft on Fascism again!"
"All those Tories have investments in Spain--wine, textiles, coal, steel--and they're afraid the left-wing government will expropriate them."
"What about America? They believe in democracy. Surely they'll sell guns to Spain?"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But there's a well-financed Catholic lobby, led by a millionaire called Joseph Kennedy, opposing any help to the Spanish government. And a Democratic president needs Catholic support. Roosevelt won't do anything to jeopardize his New Deal."
"Well, there's something we can do," said Lenny Griffiths, and a look of adolescent defiance came over his face.
"What's that, Len boy?" said Billy.
"We can go to Spain and fight."
His father said: "Don't talk daft, Lenny."
"Lots of people are talking about going, all over the world, even in America. They want to form volunteer units to fight alongside the regular army."
Lloyd sat upright. "Do they?" This was the first he had heard of it. "How do you know?"
"I read about it in the Daily Herald."
Lloyd was electrified. Volunteers going to Spain to fight the Fascists!
Tom Griffiths said to Lenny: "Well, you're not going, and that's that."
Billy said: "Remember those boys who lied about their age to fight in the Great War? Thousands of them."
"And totally useless, most of them," Tom said. "I recall that kid who cried before the Somme. What was his name, Billy?"
"Owen Bevin. He ran away, didn't he?"
"Aye--to a firing squad. The bastards shot him for desertion. Fifteen, he was, poor little tyke."
Lenny said: "I'm sixteen."
"Aye," said his father. "Big difference, that."
Granda said: "Lloyd here is going to miss the train to London in about ten minutes."
Lloyd had been so struck by Lenny's revelation that he had not kept an eye on the clock. He jumped up, kissed his grandmother, and picked up his small suitcase.
Lenny said: "I'll walk with you to the station."
Lloyd said his good-byes and hurried down the hill. Lenny said nothing, seeming preoccupied. Lloyd was glad not to have to talk: his mind was in turmoil.
The train was in. Lloyd bought a third-class ticket to London. As he was about to board, Lenny said: "Tell me, now, Lloyd, how do you get a passport?"
"You're serious about going to Spain, aren't you?"
"Come on, man, don't muck about, I want to know."
The whistle blew. Lloyd climbed aboard, closed the door, and let down the window. "You go to the post office and ask for a form," he said.
Lenny said despondently: "If I went to the Aberowen Post Office and asked for a passport form, my mother would hear of it about thirty seconds later."
"Then go to Cardiff," said Lloyd, and the train pulled away.
He settled in his seat and took from his pocket a copy of Le Rouge et le Noir by Stendhal in French. He stared at the page without taking anything in. He could think of only one idea: going to Spain.
He knew he should be scared, but all he felt was excitement at the prospect of fighting--really fighting, not just holding meetings--against the kind of men who had set the dogs on Jorg. No doubt fear would come later. Before a boxing match he was not scared in the dressing room. But when he entered the ring and saw the man who wanted to beat him unconscious, looked at the muscular shoulders and the hard fists and the vicious face, then his mouth went dry and his heart pounded and he had to suppress the impulse to turn and run away.
Right now he was mainly worried about his parents. Bernie was so proud of having a stepson at Cambridge--he had told half the East End--and he would be devastated if Lloyd left before getting his degree. Ethel would be frightened that her son might be wounded or killed. They would both be terribly upset.
There were other issues. How would he get to Spain? What city would he go to? How would he pay the fare? But only one snag really gave him pause.
Daisy Peshkov.
He told himself not to be ridiculous. He had met her twice. She was not even very interested in him. That was smart of her, because they were ill-suited. She was a millionaire's daughter and a shallow socialite who thought talking about politics was dull. She liked men such as Boy Fitzherbert; that alone proved she was wrong for Lloyd. Yet he could not get her out of his mind, and the thought of going to Spain and losing al
l chance of seeing her again filled him with sadness.
Mayfair two four three four.
He felt ashamed of his hesitation, especially when he recalled Lenny's simple determination. Lloyd had been talking about fighting Fascism for years. Now there was a chance to do it. How could he not go?
He reached London's Paddington station, took the Tube to Aldgate, and walked to the row house in Nutley Street where he had been born. He let himself in with his own key. The place had not changed much since he was a child, but one innovation was the telephone on a little table next to the hat stand. It was the only phone on the street, and the neighbors treated it as public property. Beside the phone was a box in which they placed the money for their calls.
His mother was in the kitchen. She had her hat on, ready to go out to address a Labour Party meeting--what else?--but she put the kettle on and made him tea. "How are they all in Aberowen?" she asked.
"Uncle Billy is there this weekend," he said. "All the neighbors came into Granda's kitchen. It's like a medieval court."
"Are your grandparents well?"
"Granda is the same as ever. Grandmam looks older." He paused. "Lenny Griffiths wants to go to Spain, to fight the Fascists."
She pursed her lips in disapproval. "Does he, now?"
"I'm considering going with him. What do you think?"
He was expecting opposition, but even so her reaction surprised him. "Don't you bloody dare," she said savagely. She did not share her mother's aversion to swear words. "Don't even speak of it!" She slammed the teapot down on the kitchen table. "I bore you in pain and suffering, and raised you, and put shoes on your feet and sent you to school, and I didn't go through all that for you to throw your life away in a bloody war!"
He was taken aback. "I wasn't thinking of throwing my life away," he said. "But I might risk it in a cause you brought me up to believe in."
To his astonishment she began to sob. She rarely cried--in fact Lloyd could not remember the last time.
"Mother, don't." He put his arm around her shaking shoulders. "It hasn't happened yet."
Bernie came into the kitchen, a stocky middle-aged man with a bald dome. "What's all this?" he said. He looked a bit scared.
Lloyd said: "I'm sorry, Dad, I've upset her." He stepped back and let Bernie put his arms around Ethel.
She wailed: "He's going to Spain! He'll be killed!"
"Let's all calm down and discuss it sensibly," Bernie said. He was a sensible man wearing a sensible dark suit and much-repaired shoes with sensible thick soles. No doubt that was why people voted for him: he was a local politician, representing Aldgate on the London County Council. Lloyd had never known his own father, but he could not imagine loving a real father more than he loved Bernie, who had been a gentle stepfather, quick to comfort and advise, slow to command or punish. He treated Lloyd no differently from his daughter, Millie.
Bernie persuaded Ethel to sit at the kitchen table, and Lloyd poured her a cup of tea.
"I thought my brother was dead, once," Ethel said, her tears still flowing. "The telegrams came to Wellington Row, and the wretched boy from the post office had to go from one house to the next, giving men and women the bits of paper that said their sons and husbands were dead. Poor lad, what was his name? Geraint, I think. But he didn't have a telegram for our house and, wicked woman that I am, I thanked God it was others that had died and not our Billy!"
"You're not a wicked woman," Bernie said, patting her.
Lloyd's half sister, Millie, appeared from upstairs. She was sixteen, but looked older, especially dressed as she was this evening, in a stylish black outfit and small gold earrings. For two years she had worked in a women's-wear shop in Aldgate, but she was bright and ambitious, and in the last few days she had got a job in a swanky West End department store. She looked at Ethel and said: "Mam, what's the matter?" She spoke with a cockney accent.
"Your brother wants to go to Spain and get himself killed!" Ethel cried.
Millie looked accusingly at Lloyd. "What have you been saying to her?" Millie was always quick to find fault with her older brother, who she felt was undeservedly adored.
Lloyd responded with fond tolerance. "Lenny Griffiths from Aberowen is going to fight the Fascists, and I told Mam I was thinking about going with him."
"Trust you," Millie said disgustedly.
"I doubt if you can get there," said Bernie, ever practical. "After all, the country is in the middle of a civil war."
"I can get a train to Marseilles. Barcelona's not far from the French border."
"Eighty or ninety miles. And it's a cold walk over the Pyrenees."
"There must be ships going from Marseilles to Barcelona. It's not so far by sea."
"True."
"Stop it, Bernie!" Ethel cried. "You sound as if you're discussing the quickest way to Piccadilly Circus. He's talking about going to war! I won't allow it."
"He's twenty-one, you know," Bernie said. "We can't stop him."
"I know how bloody old he is!"
Bernie looked at his watch. "We need to get to the meeting. You're the main speaker. And Lloyd's not going to Spain tonight."
"How do you know?" she said. "We might get home and find a note saying he's caught the boat train to Paris!"
"I tell you what," said Bernie. "Lloyd, promise your mother you won't go for a month at least. It's not a bad idea anyway--you need to check the lie of the land before you rush off. Set her mind at ease, just temporarily. Then we can talk about it again."
It was a typical Bernie compromise, calculated to let everyone back off without backing down, but Lloyd was reluctant to make a commitment. On the other hand he probably could not simply jump on a train. He had to find out what arrangements the Spanish government might be making to receive volunteers. Ideally he would go in company with Lenny and others. He would need visas, foreign currency, a pair of boots . . . "All right," he said. "I won't go for a month."
"Promise," his mother said.
"I promise."
Ethel became calm. After a minute she powdered her face and looked more normal. She drank her tea.
Then she put her coat on, and she and Bernie left.
"Right, I'm off too," said Millie.
"Where are you going?" Lloyd asked her.
"The Gaiety."
It was a music hall in the East End. "Do they let sixteen-year-olds in?"
She gave him an arch look. "Who's sixteen? Not me. Anyway, Dave's going and he's only fifteen." She was speaking of their cousin David Williams, son of Uncle Billy and Aunt Mildred.
"Well, enjoy yourselves."
She went to the door and came back. "Just don't get killed in Spain, you stupid sod." She put her arms around him and hugged him hard, then went out without saying any more.
When he heard the front door slam, he went to the phone.
He did not have to think to recall the number. He could see Daisy in his mind's eye, turning as she left him, smiling winningly under the straw hat, saying: "Mayfair two four three four."
He picked up the phone and dialed.
What was he going to say? "You told me to phone, so here I am." That was feeble. The truth? "I don't admire you at all, but I can't get you off my mind." He should invite her to something, but what? A Labour Party meeting?
A man answered. "This is Mrs. Peshkov's residence. Good evening." The deferential tone made Lloyd think he was a butler. No doubt Daisy's mother had rented a London house complete with staff.
"This is Lloyd Williams . . ." He wanted to say something that would explain or justify his call, and he added the first thing that came to mind: ". . . of Emmanuel College." It meant nothing but he hoped it sounded impressive. "May I speak to Miss Daisy Peshkov?"
"No, I'm sorry, Professor Williams," said the butler, assuming Lloyd must be a don. "They've all gone to the opera."
Of course, Lloyd thought with disappointment. No socialite was home at this time of the evening, especially on a Saturday. "I remember," he lied. "Sh
e told me she was going, and I forgot. Covent Garden, isn't it?" He held his breath.
But the butler was not suspicious. "Yes, sir. The Magic Flute, I believe."
"Thank you." Lloyd hung up.
He went to his room and changed. In the West End most people wore evening dress, even to go to the cinema. But what would he do when he got there? He could not afford a ticket to the opera, and anyway it would be over soon.
He took the Tube. The Royal Opera House was incongruously located next to Covent Garden, London's wholesale fruit and vegetable market. The two institutions got along well because they kept different hours: the market opened for business at three or four o'clock in the morning, when London's most determined revelers were beginning to head for home, and it closed before the matinee.
Lloyd walked past the shuttered stalls of the market and looked through glazed doors into the opera house. Its bright lobby was empty, and he could hear muffled Mozart. He stepped inside. Adopting a careless upper-class manner, he said to an attendant: "What time does the curtain come down?"
If he had been wearing his tweed suit he would probably have been told it was none of his business, but the dinner jacket was the uniform of authority, and the attendant said: "In about five minutes, sir."
Lloyd nodded curtly. To say "Thank you" would have given him away.
He left the building and walked around the block. It was a moment of quiet. In the restaurants, people were ordering coffee; in the cinemas, the big feature was approaching its melodramatic climax. Everything would change soon, and the streets would be thronged with people shouting for taxis, heading to nightclubs, kissing good-bye at bus stops, and hurrying for the last train back to the suburbs.
He returned to the opera house and went inside. The orchestra was silent, and the audience was just beginning to emerge. Released from long imprisonment in their seats, they were talking animatedly, praising the singers, criticizing the costumes, and making plans for late suppers.
He saw Daisy almost immediately.
She was wearing a lavender dress with a little cape of champagne-colored mink over her bare shoulders, and she looked ravishing. She emerged from the auditorium at the head of a small clutch of people her own age. Lloyd was sorry to recognize Boy Fitzherbert beside her, and to see her laugh gaily at something he murmured to her as they stepped down the red-carpeted stairs. Behind her was the interesting German girl, Eva Rothmann, escorted by a tall young man in the kind of military evening dress known as a mess kit.