Red Joan (33 page)

‘What makes you think I understand? I don't. I just don't get it.'

‘You would have done, Nick, if you'd been there. You became a barrister because you wanted to fight for justice. It's the same thing.'

His eyes widen. ‘No, it's not. I can't believe you would even think—'

‘No, I mean that you became a barrister because you cared. You thought you could change things.' A pause. She knows he is listening. ‘And so did I. The world was different then. Lots of people thought as I did.'

He raises his hands as if in supplication and then drops them. ‘But that's not enough. You can be sympathetic to a cause without giving away your country's biggest secret.'

‘But I was in a unique position to change things, to make it fair. I thought it was the right thing to do.'

‘Oh, how noble of you.' He shakes his head. ‘Don't tell me you haven't even stopped to think about what you actually did? What made you think you had the
right
to do it? That it was up to you to make everything fine and nice and equal. It's not a game of cricket where you can just tell everyone to play nicely.'

Joan feels the tears rising in her throat, choking her, gagging her. ‘Nick, please.'

‘But that's what I don't understand. What huge, stupendous arrogance made you think that it was up to you? How audacious do you have to be to believe that you can sort out the whole world, and that it has to be done your way?'

‘I was only ever trying to do my best.'

‘By sending secret information to a murderous dictator?'

Joan shakes her head. ‘We didn't know that then.'

‘
We
? Who's
we
? The comrades? How can you say that word without blushing? Aren't you ashamed? Haven't you read the news in the last sixty years?'

‘Of course I have. I only meant me and Leo and Sonya. All of us. How could we have predicted how it would all turn out? We thought we were doing something good.'

Nick snorts. ‘Even now you can't see them for what they were. They were using you.'

‘No. Leo loved me. I know he did even if he didn't say it. And Sonya was my dearest, greatest friend.'

‘Pfhrrrh,' Nick says.

‘So, will you do it for me?'

Silence again.

There are tears now, brimming over and running down Joan's cheeks. ‘I'm so scared, Nick. I don't want to go to prison. I don't want to die in prison.'

Nick does not look at her, but Joan knows that he is crying too. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it into the corners of his eyes, and then he rests his head against the cold windowpane. ‘I don't know,' he says, and there is a long pause before he speaks again, selecting his words with such care that when he speaks, Joan feels the precise stab of them. ‘I don't know if I can, Joan.'

Re: Leo GALICH

 

The detailed movements of the above over the past two days are as follows:

 

Sunday, 25 May 1947

 

GALICH left home at 10.55 a.m., bought a single newspaper and went for a walk in Camberwell Green. He then took a bus to Kensington High Street, where he had his shoes cleaned and at 11.55 a.m. he went to the Ballerina for a pot of tea. He reappeared an hour and a half later at 1.30 p.m. to go for a walk in Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. He met a lady corresponding to the description of his cousin, Sonya WILCOX, at the corner of Cromwell Road and Exhibition Road and proceeded with her to the Serpentine Gallery.

The lady referred to above is described as follows:

Age about twenty-eight; 5'5” in height; auburn hair (seemingly dyed), rather girlish face with red lipstick, wearing a burgundy dress and beret and black high-heeled shoes. She carried a black leather bag and appeared to be pregnant.

At 5.10 p.m., GALICH proceeded by tube to King's Cross Station accompanied by the aforementioned lady. An argument took place between the two, with the lady crying and the gentleman showing some reluctance to comfort her. Our men were not close enough to hear the nature of this exchange, but the implication was that he believed her to be acting unreasonably and would not concede to her wishes. When finally she was persuaded to board a train to Ely, she kissed him on the lips in what seemed to be a romantic fashion, and although he did not resist, he appeared uncomfortable at the display.

At 6.40 p.m., GALICH appeared alone and walked down Farringdon Road to the Bear Hotel where he dined by himself. Forty minutes later he took a bus to Marble Arch. He went into the foyer of the Odeon there, discovered that the last performance of
Caesar and Cleopatra
had already begun and was not sold out, bought a ticket, and up to a late hour was observed sitting at the back of the half-empty theatre. After the film had ended, GALICH proceeded by tube to Elephant and Castle and then by bus to Camberwell.

Throughout this day GALICH exercised every caution to discover if he was being followed. When walking, he continually looked over his shoulder, and when he took a bus he waited until late, jumped on, and stood on the platform to see if he could recognise anyone. It seems probable that he did, in fact, spot one of our men.

 

‘Listen carefully. There's a concert at the Royal Albert Hall on Saturday afternoon. Your ticket's at the box office. The others will pick up their own so just collect yours and we'll meet in there.'

‘The others?'

‘Yes.' He pauses. ‘I've told her, Jo-jo. I did it.'

Joan smiles a wide, delighted smile. At last! And about time too. She is twenty-eight years old, for goodness' sake. She shouldn't be creeping around with a secret boyfriend.

‘She wasn't happy,' he says, ‘but I told her she needed to accept it.'

There are so many things Joan wishes she could say. ‘Oh,' she says, trying to make her voice light and airy for the bugs Leo has told her will be listening in to their conversation. ‘That's wonderful news.'

‘It'll be all four of us this time. I've booked your ticket under the name we agreed, so don't forget. Take a train in the morning when it's busy.'

How she would like to talk to him properly, openly, without all these codes and instructions. She is still smiling, and she hopes it is evident from her voice. ‘I can't wait to see you,' she whispers.

Leo gives an awkward cough. ‘You too,' he says, and then, ‘Jo-jo?'

‘Yes?'

‘Be careful.'

He rings off. Joan replaces the receiver and waits for a moment. She does not like it when he is like this. It unnerves her. She is pleased he has told Sonya but she also knows that she will not sleep tonight. She knows the sensible thing would be not to see him, of course, to wait until they can be sure he is no longer under any suspicion so that she does not compromise herself by being seen with him, but she needs to see him. She needs his reassurance in order to carry on. She must see it through. It is almost there.

She takes the train to London on Saturday as instructed, arriving at midday with the day-trippers and commuters. King's Cross is full of people in a rush, swarming and jostling and generally creating confusion, and she walks down the steps to the Underground with purpose, aware that Leo wants her to be part of this mass of people so that she is less conspicuous.

There are a few people queuing at the box office when she arrives, and she gives her name as Jean Parks as arranged between her and Leo. Once she has collected her ticket, she walks to a milk bar in South Kensington and orders a ham sandwich and a glass of milk for lunch, and then she sits at a table in the corner of the room which affords her a good view of the entrance and the other customers, and she watches them, envying the ease with which they come and go. They are so relaxed, just as she must have been before this began, although she can barely remember it now. How wonderful it would be to feel like that again.

For a moment, she imagines going to a concert like this with Max, instead of with Leo and Sonya. They might agree to meet here first for a bite to eat, and he would arrive on time, smiling and uncomplicated, ready to draw diagrams of spin-washers on paper napkins to make her laugh, and she feels a sudden weariness descend across her shoulders at the thought that this will never now be possible.

But it never was possible, was it? Besides, she is with Leo. Their relationship is no longer a secret. She reasons that just because they don't say the words doesn't mean they don't feel that way about each other. Comparisons are unfair. They don't work, rationally.

She stands up and walks over to the counter to pay. Nobody looks up. Nobody follows. She opens the door and walks out into the spring sunshine, heading back to the Albert Hall and arriving late as arranged. The foyer throngs with people. Men are dressed smartly in hats and suits and the women wear long dresses and high heels. She can see why Leo would choose to meet here, somewhere dark and busy with all these interconnecting corridors and staircases. She shows her ticket to the usher who indicates her allocated seat with his torch, and she has to step across bags and feet in order to get there.

‘So sorry,' she whispers. ‘Excuse me. I'm so sorry.'

Her seat is in the middle of a row, near the back of the stalls. She takes out her binoculars and places them on her knee. There is a hush as the lights go down and the pit orchestra begins to tune. Where are they? she wonders. How late are they planning on arriving? She settles into her seat, self-conscious at being on her own but trying to give the appearance of being quite at ease. As the conductor lifts his arm to hush the sound of the orchestra tuning, she sees three people making their way towards her row, having entered the auditorium from the opposite door.

Leo, Jamie, Sonya. She recognises the silhouettes of each of them. She smiles, suddenly overcome with pleasure at the prospect of this evening, of simply being together as if there had never been any complications. Perhaps, just for this evening, they can pretend to be normal.

The conductor of the orchestra calls for silence as the three latecomers reach their seats. Leo sits noiselessly down next to Joan, the familiar scent of him enveloping her. Jamie leans around Leo to give her a small wave and Sonya blows her an exaggerated kiss. And then she unbuttons her coat.

Joan feels her whole body snap to attention. The swell of Sonya's stomach under her coat is hard and round, protruding lightly from Sonya's wiry frame. It is not huge, perhaps six months, but it is unmistakeable. Joan has to put her hand to her mouth to suppress a gasp, and the thought of that terrible room in Cambridge cracks across her mind. She remembers the woman's hair and Sonya's hand gripping her own too tightly as the bright red blood poured out of her. She pushes the memory from her mind. She must not think about it. She must be happy for her friend. She must hold out her hand and congratulate her, and then kiss Jamie's grinning cheek. ‘Oh, Sonya,' she whispers, ‘how wonderful!' She has not realised until this moment quite how much the memory of it hurts. It pounds in her stomach.

‘Shhhh,' the lady in front of them turns around to whisper, ‘it's about to start.'

Sonya raises her eyebrows in amusement and they are forced to sink back into their seats in temporary silence, blocked from each other's vision by Leo and Jamie. Never had Joan imagined she could be so grateful to anyone for shushing her in public. She knows that if that moment had been prolonged any further she would have burst into tears, and she does not want to do that. Not to Sonya, her dearest friend. Not in front of Leo.

The conductor introduces the first piece of music, and while he is speaking, Leo reaches across and takes hold of Joan's hand in the dark. They sit like this for the whole of the first piece, both of them perfectly still. Joan closes her eyes, feeling the calm of the music wash over her, building and rising but never breaking and becoming discordant. She feels sick and dizzy. The sound of applause breaks the spell, causing her to blink.

Leo's lips brush her ear. ‘How are you, Jo-jo?'

She forces herself to smile up at him. ‘Happy to see you.'

He smiles quickly. He leans towards her and for a moment Joan thinks he might be going to reciprocate with some whispered sweetness, but he doesn't. He has something else to tell her. ‘I've got some news.'

‘Sonya's expecting,' Joan whispers, wanting to get the moment over with. ‘I'm not blind.'

Leo frowns. ‘Oh that. Didn't you know?'

‘Of course not. I haven't seen her for months and you didn't tell me.'

‘No, I suppose I didn't. Well anyway, it's not that.' He pauses. ‘I've been invited back to Moscow.'

‘Moscow? You didn't mention anything on the phone.'

‘I only found out today.' He grins. ‘Sonya's just told me.'

He is evidently pleased with this news but Joan feels a sudden grip of fear. ‘Does the Party want to see you?' she whispers.

Leo nods. ‘Of course. They've invited me.'

‘But why did they not just invite you directly instead of through Sonya?'

He shrugs this question away. ‘It's quicker like this. They want me to deliver my research at a conference in Moscow next week. There'd be no time to send an invitation through the post.' He beams briefly as he speaks, and Joan feels the hairs rise on her arms and neck.

‘But if they were . . . upset with you, they wouldn't have told Sonya, would they? They know she'd warn you. They'd just tell her the same story.'

Leo shakes his head. ‘She was adamant. They're very interested in the research. They actually said I might get a medal for it.' The conductor is turning to the audience and holding up his hands. ‘And you know how that would irritate Sonya. She wouldn't pass on a message like that if she didn't absolutely have to.'

Joan looks away. Silence is requested once more in the hall for the second piece of music. A chorister steps out of his place in the choir stand and walks forward. He is only young, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, and his eyes are wide with fear. An expectant hush falls upon the crowd. He starts to sing unaccompanied, his voice high and pure, and a series of rising, perfectly held notes cut through the silence of the Albert Hall and seem to slide into the cracks of the building like water into a sponge, filling it with a deep, rich warmth.