When they entered his flat, they did not turn on any lights, they did not speak to one another. But they reached out for one another with a silent confidence. That night, she began to learn the softness and hardness of his body, and she felt those qualities mirrored what she was learning of the harshness and vulnerability of his character. She felt as though she touched his spirit as well as his body, as though his spirit was made flesh. At one point she pushed him away, holding him by his shoulders. ‘It’s too risky,’ was all she said, and he said, ‘I’ll make it safe,’ getting up and looking in a drawer. She disliked the interruption of the rhythm of their embraces, but his response to her fear was completely reassuring to her.
From listening to Winifred and Cissie and their friends, Laura had found that other women spoke of their first experiences of intercourse with a kind of resigned cynicism, but her reality, the knowledge she gained for herself in the dark room, in the cries of the night, was different. The consummation of their desire seemed to Laura a cataclysmic ending and beginning. It was as if she lost any sense of herself as an individual, and then regained it with redoubled force. After they were exhausted, she lay awake for a long time, listening to his breathing, and for the first time in her life that she could remember she felt lulled by the precious sense that she was no longer alone, that she could be entirely at rest in another’s presence. A phrase she half remembered from the reading in that Worcestershire church a few weeks earlier floated through her head. She grasped it and turned it over in her mind. Yes, she fell asleep thinking, this is the peace that passes all understanding.
11
Monday saw Laura back at work. Out of the bubble that had enclosed Edward and herself for the weekend, everything in the bookshop seemed far away and hard to understand. But nobody else seemed to notice anything different about her. At the end of the day she walked over to a left-wing bookstore that she remembered seeing near the British Museum, and looked among the shelves. A few weeks earlier she had heard Florence arguing with someone about some essays by a writer who was trying to convince the Left that the communists were a busted flush. ‘He sees communism simply as an instrument of Russian foreign policy,’ Florence had said, ‘as if this was just about one country, not the international struggle.’ The writer’s name had become hazy to Laura, and she was too shy to ask the assistant for help, but eventually she found the – thankfully slim – volume she thought would be useful.
There was a café in a side street nearby, and she ordered a cup of tea and some toast, and began to read. She had no faith in her own ability to build an argument with Florence about why she would be breaking all contact with the Party, so here, in this orange-covered book, it was a relief to find an argument laid out for her. The writer believed that communists in Britain were simply being led by the nose by the Soviet government. ‘Every communist is in fact liable at any moment to have to alter his most fundamental convictions, or leave the Party,’ was how he put it.
Laura put down her teacup. How strange that the writer, who was clearly respected in many circles, was so all at sea; did he not understand that one’s own most fundamental conviction could be faith with the Party, with something greater than oneself? It need not be a struggle, but an immersion. She went on reading, but found the essay hard-going, since so much of it assumed familiarity with literature she had not read, and since it was written from a point of view that she found so alienating. Her attention kept flickering from the page to the conversation that was going on at the table next to her, where a woman was describing in detail a recent operation her mother had had.
When she pushed her attention back to the essay, she got stuck on a single sentence. ‘We live in a shrinking world,’ it ran, ‘the democratic vistas have ended in barbed wire.’ Laura felt a shudder pass through her when she imagined what it would be like to believe that. To believe that all idealism ended up in the battlefields and concentration camps of totalitarianism. She did not want to read this essay and to understand how somebody could come to such a view of the world. She wanted to stay in the sunlit place where Edward and Florence were, where everything was going to get better and clearer as time went on.
But she made herself re-read some of his sentences over and over again, trying to understand them well enough to use them. Then she finished the tea, which had gone cold, and the toast with its thin coating of margarine. Already, food was turning out to be a constant disappointment in London.
She had told Florence she would try to get over to her flat that evening, after Florence came back from selling the Worker. She found both Florence and Elsa there, and Florence started talking to her about the actions on air raid precautions. A first demonstration at Underground stations was planned for that weekend, but Florence was still keen on the idea of protesting in one of the big hotels.
Laura listened for a while in silence, and then spoke. ‘It’s a good plan,’ she said, ‘it’s so necessary. I can’t see it convincing more people to join the Party, though. That would mean persuading them to support Soviet foreign policy, and it’s a waste of time trying to convince English people of that now.’ Laura dropped her voice a little, and added an almost plaintive tone to her next words. ‘And you can see why.’
The last words seemed to resonate in the room. But then Elsa moved the conversation back to the demonstration, talking about what the banners should say. Laura stirred, as if she was feeling physically uncomfortable, and spoke again. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and then stopped. Florence looked at her. ‘Especially when the bombs begin to fall, how can the Party go on with the line that we can’t support this war? The working class is never going to buy that – it’s like conniving in one’s own defeat.’
To Laura’s surprise, Elsa looked sympathetic as she turned to her. ‘It is hard. We all know that. We’ve got to try and show how the ruling class is using this war as a tool to enforce more inequality. You know wages are going down in the factories while hours are going up …’ Laura was impressed by the way that Elsa had engaged so quickly with her apparent shakiness of faith. She was intelligent, no doubt about that. Laura wondered how differently she might have seen her, if she had not been so jealous of Florence’s affections. But Florence burst in on Elsa’s reasonable response, and there was something unreasonable about her reaction.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve gone in for that patriotic mush,’ she said, almost spitting out the consonants. ‘Next moment you’ll be telling us that this is a war to defend democracy, when you know perfectly well by now that it’s about defending the British Empire, not defeating fascism.’
‘I’m not saying that it isn’t! But I’m saying—’
‘If you can’t see that all this defending democracy stuff is a lot of baloney, given what this country is really fighting to defend, you must have blinkers on. It’s all about the empire. There are millions of Indians and Africans that the British can’t even see as human. Good God, even Hitler can’t make the workers work for a penny an hour, do you know that’s what Indian coolies are expected to work for …?’
‘But Flo, doesn’t Laura have a point when she says it’s going to be hard to convince the workers—’
‘Laura’s so worried about the workers, is she? Or is she a bit more worried about how her posh friends see it? Laura, you are like a flannel, just soaking up the slogans.’
Laura was shocked. She had not expected Florence to explode so quickly and it seemed to her that the reaction was fuelled by something other than ideological dissent. Florence must have felt that Laura had failed her. Was the failure her inability to commit to the Party up to that point? Was it her involvement with Winifred and her friends, her glossy clothes and make-up, the nights she spent drinking and dancing rather than coming to Party meetings? Or had Florence recognised the withdrawal of her affections, did she feel the awakening of Laura’s energies in another direction?
In the moment, there was no time to pursue those thoughts. Laura went on talking to them both, trying to defend the point of
view she had found in that book of essays, that the Communist International was now being seen as all about the interests of one power, rather than the interests of the international working class. The strange thing was that by taking on the words of someone else, she felt swept along by them. She had more confidence arguing a view that was not hers than she had ever had in trying to express her own ideas. Eventually she decided to leave, but as she stood up she found she could not walk away immediately. She walked over to Florence and put a hand on her shoulder.
She could not have expected the roughness with which Florence pulled away, nor the distaste in Florence’s face. Funnily, she felt no sympathy with Florence’s anger, or any desire to win her back. If she had cared about me, she wouldn’t have minded my arguing with the Party line, she found herself thinking as she clattered down the stairs. She knew that emotion made no sense, given that their whole relationship had been founded on Laura’s adherence to Florence’s politics, and yet she could not help feeling resentful and betrayed. It was anger, not regret, that stayed with her that evening, an anger that was slow to fade.
The next day Laura was surprised by a telephone call early in the morning, before she left for work. It was Edward. ‘Can you meet me at the Lyons’ on the Strand, at one?’
She didn’t have time to ask for a more convenient meeting place before he rang off, and because she was only allowed to take her lunch break from one, she arrived breathless, late and sweating. The roads were so congested it had seemed easier to walk. She wondered whether Edward realised how conspicuous he looked, so tall and formal, in the tea room crowded with shop workers.
She sat down. He only had a coffee in front of him, and he said nothing about her being late. She wanted to touch him – just the sight of his hand reaching for his cup reminded her of how and where his hands had touched her the previous weekend – but he was already speaking in a low voice, about instructions he had been given for her. They were for the next day, Saturday afternoon, two o’clock. ‘The tobacco shop, Alfred’s, by Clerkenwell Green. Go in and say to the man at the desk, “Do you have Quintero cigars?” He will say no, and you’ll say, “Do you think you will be able to get any in?” and then, if the shop is busy, he’ll ask you to wait while he finds out, and if it isn’t, well, you’ll see.’ He asked her if she had heard all of that, and she nodded, and he asked her to repeat it back to him. She was word-perfect, because she was so alert to him.
‘I can’t stay for lunch, I’m afraid, do you want anything?’ He was gesturing to a waitress.
Laura asked for a cheese sandwich, feeling winded by the thought that he was going so quickly. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said, ‘I’ll telephone.’ It was a cursory meeting, but before he got up, he put his hand across the table and put it over hers, parting her fingers and stroking the skin between them. His touch stayed with her, despite his haste.
When Saturday came, Laura arrived at Clerkenwell a little early and looked in the windows of the jewellery shops in Hatton Garden for a while – rows of diamond rings, winking at absent shoppers. At two o’clock she went into the shop. It was small, with that sweet scent of expensive cigars, but the only customer was an elderly man buying cheap cigarettes. She hung back for a second, so that he could leave before she spoke, but strangely she felt no hesitation about asking the question that Edward had given her. It felt more natural than she thought it would, to speak words that were not her own.
The man behind the counter, a middle-aged man who she thought looked Greek or Italian, showed no surprise at her question. He waited just for a few seconds, looking at the door behind her, before lifting the top of the counter and gesturing her through to the back. Behind him was a small room where boxes of cigars were stacked high on shelves and the scent of tobacco seemed even headier. Laura waited there a long time on a faded green armchair. The novelty of her situation was impossible to grasp, and instead the passivity of the moment bore down on her and she began to wish she had brought a book or newspaper with her.
When the door finally opened again, Laura was surprised that it was a woman who entered. She sat down on the other chair and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag, but did not offer Laura one. ‘I’m Ada,’ she said. ‘That’s the name you’ll know me by.’ She went on talking, and though Laura was listening carefully to her words, she was also puzzled by her tone. What was it? Irritation? Belligerence? She was explaining that she needed to find out about Laura, to understand the nature of her commitment. She mentioned Edward, and how Laura had threatened his work. The way she put it, it was as though Laura was all at fault. She was older than Laura, severely dressed in a belted grey coat which she did not take off, her hair bobbed. She would have been good-looking, if it hadn’t been for a squint which seemed to set her whole face at an odd angle.
She spoke in a clipped tone, but Laura realised from her voice that she was American, or had spent a great deal of time in America. Laura remained under her interrogation, or so it felt, for some hours. She had to explain exactly what had drawn her to communism, who Florence was, why she had not become a Party member, who her associates in the Party had been and her precise understanding of current Soviet foreign policy. None of her answers seemed to make Ada happy. She would correct Laura from time to time, or make little notes in a book she was holding, in a manner that showed she was not impressed. Once Laura had told her all she could, Ada began to lecture her.
The lecture was all about the nature of secrecy. It was a secrecy, Laura was given to understand, that far surpassed anything Laura could have imagined. It must now encompass every aspect of her life, even in her relationship with Edward. She was told that they should not discuss anything about his work, in case he let slip something that would endanger him if she was questioned. ‘The less you know, the better. Everything you know makes him more vulnerable.’ Laura began to understand the tension Edward had expressed that night in the Savoy. This woman was clearly deeply disappointed in Edward for breaking the rule of secrecy, and deeply suspicious of Laura. She was being seen as a threat, not an asset. Laura began to feel rather sick and tired, as the hours drew on in that stuffy room and Ada went on lecturing her.
At last Ada seemed to be bringing the conversation to a close. She had been chain-smoking through most of their conversation, but finally she ground a cigarette down in the ashtray and did not light another. ‘I will report on this meeting. We will find out the response in time. Until we do find out the response, you are not to see Edward.’
Laura said nothing, but nodded.
Ada found her passive response unsatisfactory, and was stirred again to lecture her. ‘Do you understand what you have taken on? Do you understand what would happen if Edward’s work was discovered?’ Edward had also spoken of the penalty, and Laura said she supposed she did know, but Ada felt the need to spell it out. ‘Life or death,’ she said. Laura did not know how to respond to show that she understood. She simply widened her eyes, saying ‘I know,’ and suddenly she realised how hopelessly naïve she must seem to this woman, who had passed through God knows what struggles to land up in London handling this precious traitor, and here came this little ignoramus, this stupid girlfriend, threatening everything.
The shock of seeing herself through Ada’s eyes made Laura want to stand up and tell her she wasn’t like that at all, she was faithful and sure. But she knew it would be no good. She pursed her lips and looked at the carpet, and wished the interrogation would come to an end.
Ada was speaking now about how Laura would know whether the report of the meeting had been received in Moscow and what the response was. She must return to the shop, using the same code words, in a fortnight. If she was told the cigars would be in soon, she must return the following fortnight, and so on, for the next two months. Laura, desperate to go, repeated the instructions back to her, and only then did Ada nod her out of the room. The shop was closed. The Italian man unlocked the door for her without speaking, and she went out into the street whose normality seemed e
xaggerated after the strangeness of the scene she had just passed through.
The days dragged slowly over the next fortnight. Laura could not quite believe that she and Edward had been forbidden from seeing one another, but she was so keen to prove that she could be trusted that she would not have thought of trying to get in touch with him. Cut off from Florence as well, she spent a lot of time in the flat, bored and restless. She threw away all the political books and pamphlets that Florence had lent her, and went back to reading magazines and the paperback novels that Winifred left around.
As it happened, Laura had to return only once to the tobacco shop. This time she had to wait for a while before it was clear, pretending to look along the rows of pipes and cigar boxes. And when she was ushered through to the backroom, there was somebody already waiting, but it was not Ada. It was a short man with receding dark hair, wearing a worn grey suit, who introduced himself as Stefan.
Perhaps the words he spoke were no more friendly than Ada’s had been. But somehow, Laura thought, there was not the same hostility. He went through again the need for extreme secrecy, and asked a couple of other questions about her feelings about the Soviet line on the war, but that was all. She did not mention her sense of confusion, but repeated Edward’s phrases, and found as she did so she longed for the certainties she had found in the old communist pamphlets before the war. He told her that she would not now have to come back at any time unless she received a telephone call from a John Adams, in which case she should return the first Saturday after the call, using the same words as before. ‘But we should have no need to meet,’ he finished shortly. ‘That is just a back-up.’
A Quiet Life Page 15