A Quiet Life(47)

‘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.