Passing through the lobby, she looked again at the pigeonholes. The key for 305 had gone.
Tania returned to her own room, picked up the typescript, and walked to the door of room 305.
There she hesitated. Once she had done this, she was committed. No cover story would explain or excuse her action. She was distributing anti-Soviet propaganda to the West. If she were caught, her life would be over.
She knocked on the door.
Anna opened it. She was barefoot and there was a toothbrush in her hand: clearly she had been getting ready for bed.
Tania put her finger on her lips, indicating silence. Then she handed Anna the typescript. She whispered: ‘I’ll come back in two hours.’ Then she walked away.
She returned to her own room and sat on the bed, shaking.
If Anna simply rejected the work, that would be bad enough. But, if Tania had misjudged her, Anna might feel obliged to tell someone in authority that she had been offered a dissident book. She might fear that, if she kept quiet about it, she could be accused of taking part in a conspiracy. She might think that the only sensible thing to do would be to report the illicit approach that had been made to her.
But Tania believed most Westerners did not think that way. Despite Tania’s dramatic precautions, Anna would have no real sense that she was guilty of a crime just by reading a typescript.
So the main question was whether Anna would like Vasili’s work. Daniil had, and so had the editors of
New World
. But they were the only people who had read the stories, and they were all Russian. How would a foreigner react? Tania felt confident that Anna would see that the material was well written, but would it move her? Would it break her heart?
At a few minutes past eleven, Tania returned to room 305.
Anna opened the door with the typescript in her hand.
Her face was wet with tears.
She spoke in a whisper. ‘It’s unbearable,’ she said. ‘We have to tell the world.’
* * *
One Friday night, Dave found out that Lew, the drummer in Plum Nellie, was homosexual.
Until then he had thought that Lew was just shy. A lot of girls wanted to have sex with boys who played in pop groups, and the dressing room was sometimes like a brothel, but Lew never took advantage. This was not astonishing: some did, some did not. Walli never went with ‘groupies’. Dave occasionally did, and Buzz, the bass player, never said no.
Plum Nellie were getting gigs again. ‘I Miss Ya, Alicia’ was in the Top Twenty at number nineteen, and rising. Dave and Walli were writing songs together, and hoping to make a long-playing record. Late one afternoon they went to the BBC studios in Portland Place and pre-recorded a radio performance. The money was peanuts but it was an opportunity to promote ‘I Miss Ya, Alicia’. Maybe the song would go to Number One. And, as Dave sometimes said, you could live on peanuts.
They came out blinking into the evening sunshine and decided to go for a drink at a nearby pub called the Golden Horn.
‘I don’t fancy a drink,’ said Lew.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Buzz said. ‘When have you ever said no to a pint of beer?’
‘Let’s go to a different pub, then,’ said Lew.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like the look of that one.’
‘If you’re afraid of being pestered, put your sunglasses on.’
They had been on television several times, and they were sometimes recognized by fans in restaurants and bars, but there was rarely any trouble. They had learned to stay away from places where young teenagers might gather, such as coffee bars near schools, for that could lead to a mob scene; but they were all right in grown-up pubs.
They went into the Golden Horn and approached the bar. The bartender smiled at Lew and said: ‘Hello, Lucy, dear, what’ll it be, vod and ton?’
The group looked at Lew in surprise.
Buzz said: ‘So you’re a regular here?’
Walli said: ‘What’s a vod and ton?’
Dave said: ‘Lucy?’
The barman looked nervous. ‘Who are your friends, Lucy?’
Lew looked at the other three and said: ‘You bastards, you’ve found me out.’
Buzz said: ‘Are you queer?’
Having been found out, Lew threw caution to the winds. ‘I’m as queer as a clockwork orange, a three-pound note, a purple unicorn or a football bat. If you weren’t all blind as well as stupid, you would have figured it out years ago. Yes, I kiss men and go to bed with them whenever I can without getting caught. But please don’t worry that I might make advances to you: you’re all much too fucking ugly. Now let’s have a drink.’
Dave cheered and clapped, and after a moment of shocked hesitation, Buzz and Walli followed his lead.
Dave was intrigued. He knew about queers, but only in a theoretical way. He had never had a homosexual friend, as far as he knew – though most of them kept it secret, as Lew had, because what they did was a crime. Dave’s grandmother, Lady Leckwith, was campaigning for the law to be changed, but so far she had not succeeded.
Dave was in favour of his grandmother’s campaign, mainly because he hated the kind of people who opposed her: pompous clergymen, indignant Tories, and retired colonels. He had never really thought about the law as something that might affect his friends.
They had a second round of drinks, and a third. Dave’s money was running low, but he had high hopes. ‘I Miss Ya, Alicia’ was going to be released in the US. If it was a hit there, the group would be made. And he would never again have to worry about spelling.
The pub filled up quickly. Most of the men had something in common: a way of walking and talking that was a bit theatrical. They called one another ‘lovey’ and ‘precious’. After a while it became easy to tell who was queer and who was not. Perhaps that was why they did it. There were also a few girls in couples, most with short haircuts and trousers. Dave felt he was seeing a new world.
However, they were not exclusive, and seemed happy to share their favourite pub with heterosexual men and women. About half the people there knew Lew, and the group found themselves at the centre of a conversational cluster. The queers bantered in a distinctive way that made Dave laugh. A man in a shirt similar to Lew’s said: ‘Ooh, Lucy, you’re wearing the same shirt as me! How nice.’ Then he added in a stage whisper: ‘Unimaginative bitch,’ and the others laughed, including Lew.
Dave was approached by a tall man who said in a low voice: ‘Listen, mate, do you know who could sell me some pills?’
Dave knew what he was talking about. A lot of musicians took pep pills. Various kinds could be bought at places such as the Jump Club. Dave had tried some but did not really like the effect.
He looked hard at the stranger. Although he was dressed in jeans and a striped sweater, the jeans were cheap and did not go with the sweater, and the man had a short military-style haircut. Dave had an uneasy feeling. ‘No,’ he said curtly, and turned away.
In one corner stood a tiny stage with a microphone. At nine o’clock a comedian came on, to enthusiastic applause. He was a man dressed as a woman, although the hair and make-up were so good that in a different setting Dave might not have twigged.
‘Could I have everybody’s attention, please?’ the comic said. ‘I’d just like to make an important public announcement. Jerry Robertson’s got VD.’
They all laughed. Walli said to Dave: ‘What’s VD?’
‘Venereal disease,’ Dave said. ‘Spots on your cock.’
The comedian paused, then added: ‘I know, because I gave it to him.’
This got another laugh, then there was a commotion at the door. Dave looked that way and saw several uniformed policemen coming in, pushing people out of the way.
The comic said: ‘Ooh, it’s the law! I do like a uniform. The police come here a lot, have you noticed? I wonder what attracts them?’
He was making a joke of it, but the police were unpleasantly serious. They shoved their way through the crowd, seeming to enjoy being unnecessarily rough. Four went into the men’s toilets. ‘Perhaps they’ve just come for a pee,’ said the comic. An officer got up on the stage. ‘You’re an inspector, aren’t you?’ the comic said flirtatiously. ‘Have you come to inspect me?’
Two more cops dragged the comic away. ‘Don’t worry!’ he cried. ‘I’ll come quietly!’
The inspector grabbed the microphone. ‘Right, you filthy pansies,’ he said. ‘I have information that illegal drugs are being sold on these premises. If you don’t want to get hurt, stand face to the wall and get ready to be searched.’
The police were still pouring in. Dave looked around for a way out, but all the doors were blocked by blue uniforms. Some of the customers moved to the edges of the room and stood facing the walls, looking resigned, as if all this had happened to them before. The police never raided the Jump Club, Dave reflected, even though drugs were sold there almost openly.
The cops who had gone into the toilet came out frog-marching two men, one of whom was bleeding from the nose. One of the cops said to the inspector: ‘They were in the same cubicle, governor.’
‘Charge them with public indecency.’
‘Right you are, guv.’
Dave was struck painfully in the back, and cried out. A policeman wielding a nightstick said: ‘Get over by the wall.’
Dave said: ‘What did you do that for?’
The cop stuck the club close to Dave’s nose. ‘Shut your mouth, queer boy, or I’ll shut it with my truncheon.’
‘I’m not a—’ Dave stopped himself. Let them believe what they like, he thought. I’d rather be with the queers than with the police. He stepped to the wall and stood as ordered, rubbing the painful spot in his back.
He found himself next to Lew, who said: ‘Are you all right?’
‘Just a bit bruised. You?’
‘Nothing much.’
Dave was learning about why his grandmother wanted to change the law. He felt ashamed for having lived so long in ignorance.
Lew said in a low voice: ‘At least the cops haven’t recognized the group.’
Dave nodded. ‘They’re not the type to be familiar with the faces of pop stars.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the inspector talking to the badly dressed man who had asked about buying pills. Now he understood the cheap jeans and the military haircut: the man was an undercover detective, poorly disguised. He was shrugging his shoulders and spreading his arms in a helpless gesture, and Dave guessed he had failed to find anyone selling drugs.
The police searched everyone, making them turn out their pockets. The one who examined Dave felt his crotch a good deal longer than was necessary. Were these cops queer too? Dave wondered. Was that why they did this?
Several men objected to the intimate searching. They were beaten with truncheons then arrested for assaulting the police. Another man had a packet of pills he said were prescribed by his doctor, but he was arrested all the same.
Eventually the police left. The barman announced drinks on the house, but few people took up the offer. The members of Plum Nellie left the pub. Dave decided to go home for an early night.
‘Does that sort of thing happen a lot to you queers?’ he asked Lew as they were saying goodbye.
‘All the time, mate,’ said Lew. ‘All the fucking time.’
* * *
Jasper went to visit his sister at Hank Remington’s Chelsea flat one evening at seven o’clock, when he was sure Anna would be home from work but the couple would not yet have gone out. He felt nervous. He wanted something from Anna and Hank, something vital to his future.
He sat in the kitchen and watched Anna make Hank his favourite food, a fried-potato sandwich. ‘How’s your work?’ he asked her, making small talk.
‘Wonderful,’ she said, and her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve discovered a new writer, a Russian dissident. I don’t even know his real name, but he’s a genius. I’m publishing his stories set in a Siberian prison camp. The title is
Frostbite
.’
‘Doesn’t sound like much of a laugh.’
‘It is funny in parts, but it will break your heart. I’m having it translated right now.’
Jasper was sceptical. ‘Who wants to read about people in a prison camp?’
‘The whole world,’ said Anna. ‘You wait and see. How about you – do you know what you’ll do after graduation?’
‘I’ve been offered a job as junior reporter on the
Western Mail
, but I don’t want to take it. I’ve been editor and publisher of my own paper, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Did you get any replies from America?’
‘One,’ said Jasper.
‘Only one? What did they say?’
Jasper took the letter out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was from a television news show called
This Day
.
Anna read it. ‘It just says they don’t hire people without an interview. How disappointing.’
‘I plan to take them at their word.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jasper pointed to the address on the letterhead. ‘I’m going to show up at their office with this letter in my hand and say: ‘I’ve come for my interview.’
Anna laughed. ‘They’ll have to admire your cheek.’
‘There’s only one snag.’ Jasper swallowed. ‘I need ninety pounds for the air fare. And I’ve only got twenty.’
She lifted a basket of potatoes out of the fryer and set them to drain. Then she looked at Jasper. ‘Is that why you’ve come here?’
He nodded. ‘Can you lend me seventy pounds?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said. ‘I don’t have seventy pounds. I’m a book editor. That’s almost a month’s salary.’
Jasper had known that would be the answer. But it was not the end of the conversation. He gritted his teeth and said: ‘Can you get it from Hank?’
Anna layered the fried potatoes on a slice of buttered white bread. She sprinkled malt vinegar over them, then salted them heavily. She put a second slice of bread on top, then cut the sandwich in half.
Hank walked in, tucking his shirt into a pair of orange corduroy hipster trousers. His long red hair was wet from the shower. ‘Hi, Jasper,’ he said with his usual cordiality. Then he kissed Anna and said: ‘Wow, baby, something smells good.’
Anna said: ‘Hank, this could be the most expensive sandwich you will ever eat.’
38