Winter of the World

Daisy was cold with fear. Surely she could not lose her triumph at the last minute? ‘Charlie,’ she said. ‘What are you telling me? Talk straight, for the love of God.’

Eva put her arm around Daisy’s waist in a gesture of support.

Charlie replied: ‘Mother says it’s unforgivable.’

‘What does that mean, unforgivable?’

He stared miserably at her. He could not bring himself to speak.

But there was no need. She knew what he was going to say. ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’re jilting me.’

He nodded.

Olga said: ‘Daisy, we must leave.’ She was in tears.

Daisy looked around. She tilted her chin as she stared them all down: Dot Renshaw looking maliciously pleased, Victor Dixon admiring, Chuck Dewar with his mouth open in adolescent shock, and his brother Woody looking sympathetic.

‘To hell with you all,’ Daisy said loudly. ‘I’m going to London to dance with the King!’

3

1936

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in May, 1936, and Lloyd Williams was at the end of his second year at Cambridge, when Fascism reared its vile head among the white stone cloisters of the ancient university.

Lloyd was at Emmanuel College – known as ‘Emma’ – doing Modern Languages. He was studying French and German, but he preferred German. As he immersed himself in the glories of German culture, reading Goethe, Schiller, Heine and Thomas Mann, he looked up occasionally from his desk in the quiet library to watch with sadness as today’s Germany descended into barbarism.

Then the local branch of the British Union of Fascists announced that their leader, Sir Oswald Mosley, would address a meeting in Cambridge. The news took Lloyd back to Berlin three years earlier. He saw again the Brownshirt thugs wrecking Maud von Ulrich’s magazine office; heard again the grating sound of Hitler’s hate-filled voice as he stood in the parliament and poured scorn on democracy; shuddered anew at the memory of the dogs’ bloody muzzles savaging Jörg with a bucket over his head.

Now Lloyd stood on the platform at Cambridge railway station, waiting to meet his mother off the train from London. With him was Ruby Carter, a fellow activist in the local Labour Party. She had helped him organize today’s meeting on the subject of ‘The Truth about Fascism’. Lloyd’s mother, Eth Leckwith, was to speak. Her book about Germany had been a big success; she had stood for Parliament again in the 1935 election; and she was once again the Member for Aldgate.

Lloyd was tense about the meeting. Mosley’s new political party had gained many thousands of members, due in part to the enthusiastic support of the Daily Mail, which had run the infamous headline HURRAH FOR THE BLACKSHIRTS! Mosley was a charismatic speaker, and would undoubtedly recruit new members today. It was vital that there should be a bright beacon of reason to contrast with his seductive lies.

However, Ruby was chatty. She was complaining about the social life of Cambridge. ‘I’m so bored with local boys,’ she said. ‘All they want to do is go to a pub and get drunk.’

Lloyd was surprised. He had imagined that Ruby had a well-developed social life. She wore inexpensive clothes that were always a bit tight, showing off her plump curves. Most men would find her attractive, he thought. ‘What do you like to do?’ he asked. ‘Apart from organize Labour Party meetings.’

‘I love dancing.’

‘You can’t be short of partners. There are twelve men for every woman at the university.’

‘No offence intended, but most of the university men are pansies.’

There were a lot of homosexual men at Cambridge University, Lloyd knew, but it startled him to hear her mention the subject. Ruby was famously blunt, but this was shocking, even from her. He had no idea how to respond, so he said nothing.

Ruby said: ‘You’re not one of them, are you?’

‘No! Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘No need to be insulted. You’re handsome enough for a pansy, except for that squashed nose.’

He laughed. ‘That’s what they call a backhanded compliment.’

‘You are, though. You look like Douglas Fairbanks Junior.’

‘Well, thanks, but I’m not a pansy.’

‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

This was becoming embarrassing. ‘No, not at the moment.’ He made a show of checking his watch and looking for the train.

‘Why not?’

‘I just haven’t met Miss Right.’

‘Oh, thank you very much, I’m sure.’

He looked at her. She was only half joking. He felt mortified that she had taken his remark personally. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

‘Yes, you did. But never mind. Here’s the train.’

The locomotive drew into the station and came to a halt in a cloud of steam. The doors opened and passengers stepped out on to the platform: students in tweed jackets, farmers’ wives going shopping, working men in flat caps. Lloyd scanned the crowd for his mother. ‘She’ll be in a third-class carriage,’ he said. ‘Matter of principle.’

Ruby said: ‘Would you come to my twenty-first birthday party?’

‘Of course.’

‘My friend’s got a little flat in Market Street, and a deaf landlady.’