Red Joan (6 page)

‘Who's he talking to?'

Sonya narrows her eyes in an amused smile. ‘So you did notice this time?'

Joan flushes and shakes her head to protest. ‘I was just . . . I meant, I didn't think we should interrupt if—'

‘It's all right. I'm only teasing. I don't know who she is.' She buttons the fur coat up at the throat and then flicks it out over her shoulders so that it flows out like a cape. It is wildly inappropriate for the occasion but nobody seems to notice. Perhaps it is the headscarf that tones it down, giving it a touch of the Siberian to counter all that mink glamour. ‘Nobody important, don't worry.'

‘I didn't mean—'

Sonya waves her hand to dismiss Joan's protestations. ‘Come on. Let's get out of here before Leo corners us. I'm hungry.'

 

Joan doesn't mention this excursion when she writes home the following morning. She thinks of mentioning it to her father who would undoubtedly be interested, but it would be odd to send a letter addressed only to him, and she is wary of inciting her mother's suspicions, Soviet propaganda films being likely to fall into the category of things that would garner disapproval. She writes instead of other news, of hockey games and her part in the Freshers' play, and mentions how pleased her supervisor had been with her first essay. She writes a separate note to Lally in which she draws a picture of the college kitten and adopts a mock-serious tone—‘I hope the newts in the school pond are quite well'—and then she folds them into an envelope to post on her way to the science faculty.

She is already late for her first lecture. The pavements are busy today, thronging with people. Everything is breezy and bright. Three girls whom Joan recognises from the sherry party are sitting on a bench on the wide part of the bridge on Silver Street as Joan hurries past, each of them knitting purple scarves. KNIT FOR SPAIN, the banner above them reads. The girls are talking and laughing as they knit and Joan slows her pace a little, thinking that perhaps this is something she might do. She knows that the British government has declared itself officially neutral in Spain, but it cannot be a bad thing to send scarves and socks to people who need them, even if it is against government policy. An older man stops to drop some coins into their collection tin.

As she walks on, she hears someone call out her name and she looks around, taking a step out to the side and into the road as she does so. And then, so quickly that she does not have time to register the exact order of events, there is a pummelling against the side of her body, as if someone is punching her in the stomach and sides, and then her arms are up around her head and the road is jolting beneath her as her body crumples to the ground.

‘Another step, young lady, and you'd have been done for.'

The voice is close to her head and there is something familiar about the accent even though it is hard to place. She feels a hand on her neck, and allows herself to be shuffled up to a sitting position. The concrete wall of the bridge on the far side of the pavement is dazzlingly white and her body feels sore. She looks at her rescuer, and realises why his voice is so familiar. It is Leo. Up close, he is even more beautiful than she remembers.

‘What happened?' she asks.

‘You stepped out in front of a bicycle.' He grins. ‘The cyclist probably came off worse though.'

‘Oh no!' she exclaims, glancing around. A little way down the road she sees a pale-haired man tugging a bicycle over to the kerb. He is rubbing his head with one hand and holding a cloth cap in the other. He straightens his jacket, unwinds his scarf and then reties it. The chain is dangling from the back wheel of his bike and the handlebars are no longer properly aligned.

‘Is he hurt?'

The man turns and nods at Leo, who makes an apologetic gesture with his hands in response.

‘He's all right.' Leo grins. He picks up her satchel and then holds out his hand to her. ‘Come on, then.'

Joan hesitates. She takes hold of Leo's proffered hand and allows him to help her to her feet. Her legs feel weak and shaky, and there is a fizz of heat along her spine. She holds his hand for a little longer than necessary, and then she looks him up and down and smiles.

 

He accompanies her to the science faculty. It is only a short walk along the narrow pavement next to Queen's College and then a shortcut along Botolph Lane. Joan's body is still stinging from the impact and her head feels light, but on the whole, she considers that she hasn't come off too badly. ‘I'm sorry for causing such a fuss,' she says as they start to walk. ‘I don't know why I stepped out without looking.'

Leo looks at her, his eyes narrowing a little as he does. ‘Well, if I hadn't called out to you it would never have happened. And I wanted to find you anyway. I only turned away for a minute yesterday and when I looked back you'd both vanished. Like two pumpkins in a fairy tale.'

Joan laughs. ‘Or princesses,' she corrects him, surprised that Leo would make a reference like that. He seems too serious to be interested in fairy tales, too distracted by those heavy red books he is carrying under his arm to have much time for fanciful narratives.

But it turns out that Leo Galich has a thing about fairy tales. He likes them. He tells her that they remind him of home, of the clear mirrored lake beside his family's old summer house in Russia before they moved to Germany, of the wide fields spread out like a floor under the great ceiling of sky. Grain and birdsong and too-hot summers followed by knee-deep winters. It is impossible to be Russian, he tells her, and not have a thing about fairy tales.

‘Communism,' he continues, after a long period of unspoken thought, ‘now there's a fairy tale. The whole of the Russian revolution was built on a fairy tale.'

‘I thought it was because of the war. And not enough bread.'

Leo hesitates at this interruption, and she notices the crooked whiteness of his teeth as he replies. ‘That as well.'

‘So those heavy books you're carrying are just a decoy, are they?' Joan asks. ‘They look serious but they're really full of pumpkins and princesses.'

Leo frowns and then sees that she is joking and gives a short laugh of surprise. He looks at her, his head tilted as he seems to appraise her. ‘Sonya said you were different from the others,' he says at last, breaking the silence.

‘Did she?' Joan asks, flattered to hear this indirect compliment.

He nods, and gestures towards the books he is carrying. ‘They're documents of numbers actually. Not very interesting reading, unless you know what you're looking for.'

‘And what are you looking for?'

He glances at her. ‘Proof.'

‘Proof?'

‘That it works.'

‘Communism?'

‘Yes. Or at least, that the Soviet system works.'

Joan looks up at him in surprise. ‘And does it?'

‘Put it this way, Soviet Russia is the only state in the world to offer full employment. There are no pockets of chronic unemployment like you find in Jarrow or South Wales. The British government claims that unemployment is nothing more than a minor blip in the system, a temporary malfunction of the markets. But that's not true.'

He stops, taking Joan's arm and turning her to look at him. She feels the warmth of his fingers against her skin, and she has to bite her lip to force herself to concentrate on what he is saying. ‘Well, if it's not that, what is it caused by?'

Leo nods, evidently pleased with the question. ‘Short-sightedness. Marx showed years ago that unemployment is an inevitable by-product of capitalism, but it suits the government to allow it to happen. It's a way of allowing the market to right itself without them having to make any effort.'

‘So do you think Britain should be doing what America's doing? A sort of British New Deal with public works projects?'

Leo shakes his head. He taps the books under his arm. ‘If a society is properly planned and organised there will never be any unemployment. Every person will be able to contribute. No waste, no surplus. I mean, just look at the figures. Industrial production in the USSR is six and a half times greater this year than it was in 1928. Capital accumulation is nine times as great. The numbers are little short of miraculous. And it's all because the whole Soviet system was planned in advance on an industrial scale.' He grins. ‘It works. It's a fairy tale.'

Joan glances up at him, wondering how Stalin fits into this picture of social perfection. ‘And no fairy tale would be complete without a wolf. Is that it?'

‘That's a separate point. The wolf isn't really necessary to the story. The system just has to be shown to work first.'

‘So he could be left out of the sequel?'

Leo smiles although his expression does not give anything away. ‘Potentially, yes,' he says, and then falls silent. They are approaching the science faculty now, and the sudden awkwardness that has arisen is alleviated by the sound of an aeroplane droning above them. They both glance upwards, but the noise is too loud for conversation.

Leo looks at Joan and grins. ‘Do you know the Russian word for aeroplane?' he asks once it has passed.

‘No.'

‘
Samolet.
It means ‘magic carpet.' Don't you think that's a wonderful description?'

Joan smiles. As he speaks she gazes up at him, noticing that the bright skin around his eyes appears almost luminous, and for a brief moment she finds herself wondering if his whole body glows like that.

T
here is a knock at the front door of the house, a pause, and then another knock. Joan's eyelids are heavy and her neck twinges painfully as she tries to sit up. She sees that it is light outside, which means she must have slept through the night, uninterrupted. How many years has it been since she last managed that? She presses her palms against her eyes and holds them there, as if by blocking out the light for long enough she might be able to force the memories back inside and erase yesterday entirely.

Another knock. She reaches for her glasses, holds them up to her eyes, and glances at the digital clock next to her bed. They are early. She should have set her alarm.

She lifts her head and pushes herself into a seated position. Her body aches as she moves, her joints stiff and swollen. She is still wearing her clothes from the day before, not having had the energy to change for bed after being escorted home the previous evening by Ms. Hart and Mr. Adams. Her bus pass and passport were confiscated and the electronic tag was fitted to her ankle, and she had been too tired to protest that such precautions were unnecessary. She has been placed under curfew in the evenings and is expected to cooperate with daily questioning by MI5 until further notice. Or, more specifically, until her name is released to the House of Commons on Friday.

And then what?

She does not want to think about this. Not now. Not yet. She must stay strong for the day which lies ahead. She must not let anything slip.

There is another ring at the door, and then an impatient knock.

She slides her feet into the pair of sheepskin boots bought for her by Nick's wife, which are apparently fashionable as well as comfortable, and pulls her dressing gown on over her clothes. It is cold, and she would like it to be fully apparent that she has just woken up. She will need a few more minutes to get herself together before the questioning begins again. They are interviewing her at home today, having agreed to bring their equipment to the house as a concession to her age, even though she insisted that she was perfectly well enough to travel if they wouldn't mind picking her up from the end of the road as she doesn't want the neighbours gossiping. Or she could get the bus, only then there's the question of her bus pass.

But they had insisted on coming to the house, and now she supposes that it could actually work in her favour. It would certainly be less disconcerting to be able to see Mr. Adams' face, rather than know that he is watching her from behind a dark screen. Her only concern is what people might think of all this coming and going with briefcases and cameras. Not because she cares what anyone thinks, but because someone might think to alert Nick, and she doesn't want that.

She runs a brush lightly through her hair. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and puts the brush down. There is no benefit in making herself look any better than she feels. ‘I don't know what you're talking about,' she whispers to her reflection, her eyes sad and unblinking, her brow furrowed in confusion; practising. She takes a deep breath and turns away, ready now to descend the stairs and open the door, but before she has crossed the landing she hears a key slip into the lock, turn, and the latch click open.

‘Mum?' a voice calls. ‘Mum? Are you there?'

Joan feels her breath catch in her throat. Nick. Oh God. What is he doing here? For one thing, he is not allowed in. It is one of the Home Secretary's conditions: all visitors must be vetted before entering. But this is not Joan's main concern. He must not be here when they arrive. He cannot find out what is going on.

Joan walks to the top of the stairs, her legs suddenly weak and unsteady, and she peers over the bannister. Nick is standing in the hallway, wiping his feet on the mat and frowning. He is forty-nine years old, tall and slim with a crop of silver hair. He used to have a beard but when he took silk he decided it would add gravitas to his appearance in court to be clean-shaven, and so he shaved it off, and Joan agrees that he was right. It does make him look more serious. Nicholas Stanley, QC. She has heard him present himself in such a manner before, and each time she feels a shiver of pride at what her son has achieved.

Just pretend, Joan thinks. Pretend nothing is happening. Act normal. Maybe MI5 will be late and he will already have left before they arrive. Perhaps it's just a routine visit, Nick being conscientious in this regard, calling in on her every so often just to check, especially if he has not seen her over the weekend. To check what, he does not say: that she is eating properly, that the house is clean, that she has not dropped dead on the bathmat. The normal catalogue of concerns regarding eighty-five-year-old women. They are not long visits. If she can just get him out of the house quickly enough . . .