Winter of the World

Woody remembered his mission. ‘All the same, Grandmama, it was an awful long time ago.’

‘Awfully. You require an adverb, not an adjective. But your judgement is better than your grammar. It is a long time.’

That sounded hopeful. ‘So you’ll do it?’

‘How do you think your father would feel?’

Woody considered. He could not bullshit Ursula – she would see through it in a heartbeat. ‘Would he care? I guess he might be embarrassed, if Olga were around as a constant reminder of a humiliating episode in his youth.’

‘You guess right.’

‘On the other hand, he’s very committed to the ideal of behaving fairly to the people around him. He hates injustice. He wouldn’t want to punish Daisy for something her mother did. Even less to punish Charlie. Papa has a pretty big heart.’

‘Bigger than mine, you mean,’ said Ursula.

‘I didn’t mean that, Grandmama. But I bet if you asked him he wouldn’t object to Olga joining the Society.’

Ursula nodded. ‘I agree. But I wonder whether you’ve worked out who is the real originator of this request?’

Woody saw what she was driving at. ‘Oh, you’re saying Daisy put Charlie up to it? I wouldn’t be surprised. Does it make any difference to the rights and wrongs of the situation?’

‘I guess not.’

‘So, will you do it?’

‘I’m glad to have a grandson with a kind heart – even if I do suspect he’s being used by a clever and ambitious girl.’

Woody smiled. ‘Is that a yes, Grandmama?’

‘You know I can’t guarantee anything. I’ll suggest it to the committee.’

Ursula’s suggestions were regarded by everyone else as royal commands, but Woody did not say so. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

‘Now give me a kiss and get ready for church.’

Woody made his escape.

He quickly forgot about Charlie and Daisy. Sitting in the Cathedral of St Paul in Shelton Square, he ignored the sermon – about Noah and the Flood – and thought about Joanne Rouzrokh. Her parents were in church, but she was not. Would she really show up at the demonstration? If she did, he was going to ask her for a date. But would she accept?

She was too smart to care about the age difference, he reckoned. She must know she had more in common with Woody than with boneheads such as Victor Dixon. And that kiss! He was still tingling from it. What she had done with her tongue – did other girls do that? He wanted to try it again, as soon as he could.

Thinking ahead, if she did agree to date him, what would happen in September? She was going to Vassar College, in the town of Poughkeepsie, he knew that. He would return to school and not see her until Christmas. Vassar was for girls only but there must be men in Poughkeepsie. Would she date other guys? He was jealous already.

Outside the church he told his parents he was not coming home for lunch, but was going on the protest march.

‘Good for you,’ his mother said. When young she had been the editor of the Buffalo Anarchist. She turned to her husband. ‘You should go, too, Gus.’

‘The union has brought charges,’ Papa said. ‘You know I can’t prejudge the result of a court case.’

She turned back to Woody. ‘Just don’t get beaten up by Lev Peshkov’s goons.’

Woody got his camera out of the trunk of his father’s car. It was a Leica III, so small he could carry it on a strap around his neck, yet it had shutter speeds as fast as one five-hundredth of a second.

He walked a few blocks to Niagara Square, where the march was to begin. Lev Peshkov had tried to persuade the city to ban the demonstration on the grounds that it would lead to violence, but the union had insisted it would be peaceful. The union seemed to have won that argument, for several hundred people were milling around outside City Hall. Many carried lovingly embroidered banners, red flags, and placards reading: Say No to Boss Thugs. Woody looked around for Joanne but did not see her.

The weather was fine and the mood was sunny, and he took a few shots: workmen in their Sunday suits and hats; a car festooned with banners; a young cop biting his nails. There was still no sign of Joanne, and he began to think that she would not appear. She might have a headache this morning, he guessed.

The march was due to move off at noon. It finally got going a few minutes before one. There was a heavy police presence along the route, Woody noted. He found himself near the middle of the procession.

As they walked south on Washington Street, heading for the city’s industrial heartland, he saw Joanne join the march a few yards ahead, and his heart leaped. She was wearing tailored pants that flattered her figure. He hurried to catch up with her. ‘Good afternoon!’ he said happily.

‘Good grief, you’re cheerful,’ she said.

It was an understatement. He was delirious with happiness. ‘Are you hungover?’

‘Either that or I’ve contracted the Black Death. Which do you think it is?’

‘If you have a rash, it’s the Black Death. Are there any spots?’ Woody hardly knew what he was saying. ‘I’m not a doctor, but I’d be happy to check you over.’