Red Joan (20 page)

It follows, therefore, that we shall give whatever help we can to Russia and to the Russian people. We have offered to the government of Soviet Russia any technical or economic assistance which is in our power and which is likely to be of service to them.'

 

This speech by Winston Churchill was broadcast in Russian from station GRV last night.

 

*

 

Joan's room in the billet is small and low-ceilinged. It smells of stale tobacco and there is no hot water in the mornings. There are flowers on the dressing table, freshly picked and messy, and the bed is covered in a pink eiderdown. It is Sunday afternoon and Joan is sitting on the bed, waiting, the mattress springs sagging beneath her. She rolls over onto her stomach and unlatches the window so that she can lean out and see into the box garden below. A row of blue ceramic pots sprout lamb's lettuce in great, composted clumps. The paving flags are cracked and moss-furred, and the faint scent of thyme and rosemary is detectable above the damp of the wallpaper. The arched hump of the Anderson shelter rises up from the earth at the bottom of the garden, and in the next-door garden three girls are skipping with an old piece of rope. Joan knows the game, and she watches the pattern of the children's feet; sun, shade, sun, shade.

She picks up the postcard and reads it again.

 

To my little comrade
, he writes.
Now don't get too excited. I'm coming home
(Home! she thinks. Does he mean me? Am I home? Or does he just mean England?)
but it's only for a short visit. I have been commandeered to take up a research post at the University of Montreal for the duration of the war, and I'm coming back to retrieve my papers. I presume you still have them. I'll be in touch when I get to England. Don't write to me here. I won't get it if you do.

Yours fraternally,

Leo

 

The postcard is small and battered, and the picture on the front depicts a moose on a snowy mountainside. Brusque as ever, but she has read it over and over again since its arrival two weeks ago. She wraps the sheets tightly around herself, and for a brief moment she imagines they are his arms enfolding her, warming her. Her heart beats faster, the memory of him spreading through her whole body. She closes her eyes and imagines his face, those serious dark eyes and perfect lips.

But no, it is the same every time. The image will not stay still. It falters and fades and refuses to come back. Joan sits up and puts the postcard back on the small wooden table next to her bed. He will be here soon. She must be ready for him in every sense, ready to ensure that she lets nothing slip about the project as he is bound to ask. It crosses her mind once again that he might already know from his friend in the camp, but then she dismisses the thought as impossible, remembering that Max had told her even some of the War Cabinet hadn't yet been told about it.

She has told Mrs. Landsman that her cousin will be coming to visit, opting for this story because young men are not generally permitted to stay overnight but exceptions can occasionally be made for family members. She remembers the fracas that once ensued from the discovery of a man in another girl's room in the early hours of the morning, the girl being denounced as a Jezebel while having her belongings flung from the wardrobe into an open trunk in front of the entire house, and Joan does not wish to become the next subject of such scrutiny. Hence they will be cousins, for the time being.

There is a knock downstairs at the front door. She hears it open, and then a man's voice followed by footsteps coming up the stairs. Joan's breath sticks in her throat. She has imagined this moment so many times: opening the bedroom door, taking him by the hand, pulling him inside. She stands up and flattens down her bright blue dress—the one Sonya gave her—as she walks slowly across the room to the door, and puts her hand on the handle.

The sound of the children's game outside is suddenly much louder, faster. Joan can hear the slapping of feet against the hard, hot grass. The singing has become a rising chant, and the skipping game is furious, rhythmic, a whirl of noise and sound and light, and then there is Leo, stepping into her room without so much as hugging her, taking off his shoes and folding his jacket neatly on top of them, and then he is turning, picking her up, taking two strides across the room and diving them both onto the bed, causing the mattress to creak and groan under the sudden weight of them, and although she knows she must tell him that they need to be quiet or Mrs. Landsman will throw them out onto the street, she finds that she no longer cares and instead she is falling with him. Down and down and down.

 

‘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?'