Red Joan (10 page)

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.

Joan recognises the expression. She has seen it before, just occasionally, on the few times she has tried to talk to Sonya about Leo, and the effect is amused, patronising. For a moment, Joan wishes she hadn't come. This is not her place. It is Leo's, and Sonya's. Joan sits down on the cushion next to Sonya's feet. If Leo hadn't informed her otherwise, she would probably think that Sonya is jealous in some way, but Leo has told her that this is a ridiculous suggestion. Sonya is not the jealous type. She is just protective. Whatever that means. Perhaps it would be easier if Sonya were jealous, as at least then Joan would know what to do. She could reassure her and make sure she wasn't feeling left out. She looks up at Sonya who is leaning out of the window to extinguish her cigarette against the brickwork. She flicks it from her fingers, watching its careless descent into the flowerbed below.

‘So what happens now?' Joan asks, anxious to break the silence that has arisen between them.

‘We wait,' Sonya says abruptly and then softens, leaning towards Joan in a conspiratorial manner until she is so close that Joan can almost taste the tobacco on her breath. She nods towards the man talking to Leo, the one Joan recognises from the march. ‘You should keep an eye out for William, by the way. He rather adores Leo.'

Joan frowns, not quite understanding why Sonya is grinning in the manner she is, but aware that this is an attempt at reconciliation, so she does not question her but smiles, grateful and uncomprehending, glancing over to see William slap Leo on the back and then place his other hand on the shoulder of the young man next to him who seems to jump at the touch. ‘Who's that?'

‘Rupert,' Sonya whispers. ‘You'll get used to him.'

Once everyone has arrived and the door has been pushed shut, Leo announces that the object of tonight's meeting is to discuss the reports of the Moscow Trials printed in the British press. He has managed to obtain a transcript of the first trial from his PhD supervisor, and he reads aloud the confession of Zinoviev, the erstwhile leader of Communist International who stood beside Lenin during the 1917 Revolution, and who has now pleaded guilty to the charge of having formed a terrorist organisation to kill Stalin and other members of the Soviet government.

The reading lasts for approximately ten minutes during which nobody seems to breathe. They are all listening intently to Leo. When he finishes, there are murmurs among the group but nobody seems willing to be the first to speak. Joan knows that, as the newcomer, she ought to keep quiet, but she does not understand why nobody is asking the obvious question. She bites her tongue and fidgets until she can keep it in no longer. She coughs, and then asks in a conversational tone: ‘So do you think Stalin forced him to say it?'

As soon as the words leave her mouth Joan knows that her question is a mistake. She does not yet know that Stalin is not spoken of in these terms in public, not as a real person who might be, in some way, culpable. Certainly not as a wolf in a fairy tale. This is something she might say to Leo when they are alone, but not in front of this group of people she hardly knows. Leo looks at her and the lamplight reflects harshly off his glasses. She feels the cold glare of his disappointment, and although she is ashamed to have let him down in this manner, she is also irritated by his response. Surely it is a reasonable question to have asked.

‘Of course not,' he says. ‘These confessions are freely given, and the only people claiming otherwise are members of the Western press whose sole purpose seems to be to discredit the USSR.' He shrugs. ‘His execution was entirely necessary to protect and preserve the revolution.'

Leo has never spoken to her in this manner before and Joan feels her pulse quicken with the urge to defend herself. She does not know why nobody else joins in and backs her up. ‘But you can see why they say that some of the confessions simply aren't credible.'

‘Who says that?'

Joan stares at him, confused, convinced that he knows the answer to this as well as she does. ‘The press. Most people in England.'

A pause. Leo does not look at her but places the transcript very carefully onto the floor next to him. ‘Then they're playing into the hands of criminals. Anything dubious in the confessions was put there deliberately by enemies of the state who are trying to discredit the government. It's quite simple.'

Joan leans back against the wall, trying not to appear as annoyed as she feels. The discussion continues with a consideration of how far the execution of traitors is justifiable for the preservation of the greater good. How far may badness extend in order that it might become good? And at what point might the greater good overtip the balance? After nearly an hour of discussion around this point, the group breaks for tea and Joan sees that this is a good opportunity to slip out without causing too much fuss. She starts to gather her things together but before she has the chance, Leo comes across and crouches next to her. ‘Jo-jo,' he says softly, conciliatorily. ‘You mustn't take anything I say here personally, you know.'

Joan sniffs. She is angry with him and wants him to know that she is. Even if he disagrees with her, there is no need to be so abrupt. ‘How can I not?'

‘If I disagree with you politically, it's simply that. It's constructive argument, that's all. That's what we're doing here. We're finding a way that works. We can't let emotions get in the way of progress.' He pauses, and strokes her cheek gently with his hand. ‘That's the whole point of these meetings.'

She gives a reluctant smile. ‘I think I prefer you on your own,' she retorts, only half joking.

 

He is a mystery to her, this man. She has spent so much of her time with him over the past few weeks, and yet there are instances like this when she wonders if she knows him at all. She wishes she could ask Sonya's advice, not simply because she knows him better than anyone but also as a friend. However, every time she thinks she might be able to bring up the subject in the days and weeks following that first meeting, she finds she cannot. She doesn't know why this is, recognising only that it is a bad idea. Leo and Sonya are practically brother and sister. Perhaps it is just too intimate, too personal. Or perhaps it is just that she doesn't like to talk about him, aware of how vulnerable such a confession would make her feel. It is a way of keeping her heart intact.

Because this is what worries her. On the few occasions when she has attempted to extract some sort of declaration of intent from him in relation to his feelings for her, he has simply said that man cannot be guided by emotion over intellect, and each time she has found herself nodding in reluctant agreement. After all, it is what she always thought when she was younger. It is what she thinks now, rationally, being educated in the religion of reason as she is. But then she thinks of the
Cambridge Book of Romantic Verse
hidden under her bed (which reminds her, she must return it before the fine reaches ridiculous proportions) and she knows that she does not really think this at all.

As a consequence of these discussions, she has decided that she will not sleep with him until he has told her he loves her, and that when he does, this declaration must be unprompted and sincere. Leo, however, is unaware of this decision, and so he asks her to stay every time they spend the evening together and every time she refuses. It has created an impasse in their relationship but it is not uncomfortable. If anything, it raises the tension a little. It keeps them both on their toes.

In the end, it is Sonya who brings up the subject first. She comes to Joan's room one morning before breakfast, still dressed from the night before, and wearing Joan's fur coat. When Joan opens the door in answer to her knock, she extracts two eggs from her handbag and holds one out to Joan. ‘I brought breakfast. They're soft-boiled.'

‘Where have you been?'

‘With Daniel.'

Joan frowns. She gets back into bed and pulls the covers up to her neck. It is still early and the room is cold. ‘Is he the one with the big nose who was at the march?'

‘Roman nose,' Sonya corrects her. ‘No, that's Tom. Daniel's the one with the perfect hands. History at Pembroke. Hockey player. I think you met him once.'

‘Oh, him. I didn't think you liked him any more.' Joan looks up at her suddenly. ‘Did you . . . ?'

A mischievous look crosses Sonya's face. She slips into Joan's small kitchen and starts raking through the cupboard above the sink. ‘Where are your egg cups then?'

‘I don't have any.'

Sonya raises her hands in supplication. ‘Why ever not?' She comes back to the bedroom and sits cross-legged on the floor while she peels away the shell to reveal a perfect white oval.

‘Have you done it before?' Joan asks tentatively.

‘Done what?'

‘You know.'

Sonya leans back against the wall. She is still wearing the fur coat, and it is wrapped around her like a luxurious blanket. ‘Of course. A few times. I wanted to get it out of the way early.' She glances at Joan. ‘Don't tell me you're waiting.'

Joan shakes her head. ‘Not on principle. I just haven't . . . '

Sonya smiles. ‘I wouldn't hold your breath,' she says.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Leo's not like other boys. He's so principled. Incorrupt­ible.'

Joan raises an eyebrow at this but she does not correct her, thinking that it would not be fair to tarnish Sonya's unsullied vision of her older cousin.

Sonya watches her, frowning. ‘Aren't you going to have your egg?'

‘It's too early,' Joan says. ‘I'll have it later.'

‘Suit yourself.' She takes a delicate bite of egg, taking her time over it as she describes the cocktails she shared with Daniel and how he had asked her as she left if she would have lunch with him and his parents on Sunday. ‘He's such a scream,' she says, incredulous that he might think she would want to meet his parents, ‘although I don't think he means to be.'

Joan smiles and turns away, lying back against her pillow as Sonya continues to talk. She is content to lie there, not wanting to get up quite yet, and aware of another sensation insinuating itself into her mind, one that she will not share with Sonya: triumph that there is at least one thing she knows about Leo that Sonya doesn't.

 

*

 

Over the next few weeks, Joan attends several other meetings with Leo although she is more careful than she was the first time. She knows that she is an aberration here, being a non-joiner, and so she makes an effort to be polite and acquiescent to avoid saying anything inappropriate.

Tonight the subject is Spain and William is trying to persuade the others that they really ought to go out there and join up with the Republican forces as part of the International Brigade. Rupert is sitting next to him as usual, dressed smartly in a charcoal grey suit and nodding vigorously at everything William says.

‘We've already lost so many of our boys out there,' he declares. ‘Cornford, Wallis . . . ' He grasps for another name.

‘ . . . Yates . . . ' Rupert interjects.

‘Yates,' William repeats. ‘And endless others,' he adds, his arm encompassing these nameless volunteers in a sweeping gesture. ‘We've got to make sure those boys didn't die in vain.'

How childish he sounds, Joan thinks, how dishonest. Here he is, sitting in a room in Cambridge (on the floor, admittedly, but other than that in perfect comfort) with no threat of imminent violence, not a gun to be seen, biscuits being passed around on a plate, and talking as if he is some sort of battle-worn hero.

She is relieved when eventually Leo speaks. ‘It's a war. Everyone dies in vain when it comes down to it.'

‘Not if we go out and get more of them.'

Leo makes a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘It's not a game of cards. You don't win by counting matchsticks.'

Rupert speaks up. ‘But William's right. You don't win by ducking out either.'

‘Exactly.'

‘I didn't realise you were such a pacifist,' Sonya says to Leo, crossing her long dark-stockinged legs and scattering cigarette ash all over the carpet.

Leo shrugs. ‘I'm not saying that. I'm just saying I wouldn't choose to go to war. Who would?'

‘But I don't think we have a choice. We have to go,' William announces. ‘It's our duty. You said it yourself. When it comes to it, we'll have to choose. Fascism will spread across Europe if we don't stop it now. Everyone has to choose.'

‘There are other ways of changing the world,' Leo declares.

A snort from William. ‘Maybe,' he concedes, ‘but none so fast.'

Leo says nothing, but takes a cigarette from his pocket. He lights it, and Joan sees his eyes flick to Sonya's.