Winter of the World (Century Trilogy 2)

by Ken Follett

  Joanne said: ‘Woody’s political ideas are more grown-up than yours, Victor.’

  Woody glowed. ‘Politics is kind of the family business,’ he said. Then he was irritated by a tug at his elbow. Too polite to ignore it, he turned to see Charlie Farquharson, perspiring from his exertions on the dance floor.

  ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’ said Charlie.

  Woody resisted the temptation to tell him to buzz off. Charlie was a likeable guy who did no harm to anyone. You had to feel sorry for a man with a mother like that. ‘What is it, Charlie?’ he said with as much good grace as he could muster.

  ‘It’s about Daisy.’

  ‘I saw you dancing with her.’

  ‘Isn’t she a great dancer?’

  Woody had not noticed but, to be nice, he said: ‘You bet she is!’

  ‘She’s great at everything.’

  ‘Charlie,’ said Woody, trying to suppress a tone of incredulity, ‘are you and Daisy courting?’

  Charlie looked bashful. ‘We’ve been horse riding in the park a couple of times, and so on.’

  ‘So you are courting.’ Woody was surprised. They seemed an unlikely pair. Charlie was such a lump, and Daisy was a poppet.

  Charlie added: ‘She’s not like other girls. She’s so easy to talk to! And she loves dogs and horses. But people think her father is a gangster.’

  ‘I guess he is a gangster, Charlie. Everyone bought their liquor from him during Prohibition.’

  ‘That’s what my mother says.’

  ‘So your mother doesn’t like Daisy.’ Woody was not surprised.

  ‘She likes Daisy fine. It’s Daisy’s family she objects to.’

  An even more surprising thought occurred to Woody. ‘Are you thinking of marrying Daisy?’

  ‘Oh, God, yes,’ said Charlie. ‘And I think she might say yes, if I asked her.’

  Well, Woody thought, Charlie had class but no money, and Daisy was the opposite, so maybe they would complement one another. ‘Stranger things have happened,’ he said. This was kind of fascinating, but he wanted to concentrate on his own romantic life. He looked around, checking that Joanne was still there. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked Charlie. It was not as if they were great friends.

  ‘My mother might change her mind if Mrs Peshkov were invited to join the Buffalo Ladies Society.’

  Woody had not been expecting that. ‘Why, it’s the snobbiest club in town!’

  ‘Exactly. If Olga Peshkov were a member, how could Mom object to Daisy?’

  Woody did not know whether this scheme would work or not, but there was no doubting the earnest warmth of Charlie’s feelings. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Woody said.

  ‘Would you approach your grandmother for me?’

  ‘Whoa! Wait a minute. Grandmama Dewar is a dragon. I wouldn’t ask her for a favour for myself, let alone for you.’

  ‘Woody, listen to me. You know she’s really the boss of that little clique. If she wants someone, they’re in – and if she doesn’t, they’re out.’

  This was true. The Society had a chairwoman and a secretary and a treasurer, but Ursula Dewar ran the club as if it belonged to her. All the same, Woody was reluctant to petition her. She might bite his head off. ‘I don’t know,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘Oh, come on, Woody, please. You don’t understand.’ Charlie lowered his voice. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to love someone this much.’

  Yes, I do, Woody thought; and that changed his mind. If Charlie feels as bad as I do, how can I refuse him? I hope someone else would do the same for me, if it meant I had a better chance with Joanne. ‘Okay, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘Thanks! Say – she’s here, isn’t she? Could you do it tonight?’

  ‘Hell, no. I’ve got other things on my mind.’

  ‘Okay, sure . . . but when?’

  Woody shrugged. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re a pal!’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. She’ll probably say no.’

  Woody turned back to speak to Joanne, but she had gone.

  He began to look for her, then stopped himself. He must not appear desperate. A needy man was not sexy, he knew that much.

  He danced dutifully with several girls: Dot Renshaw, Daisy Peshkov, and Daisy’s German friend Eva. He got a Coke and went outside to where some of the boys were smoking cigarettes. George Renshaw poured some Scotch into Woody’s Coke, which improved the taste, but he did not want to get drunk. He had done that before and he did not like it.

  Joanne would want a man who shared her intellectual interests, Woody believed – and that would rule out Victor Dixon. Woody had heard Joanne mention Karl Marx and Sigmund Freud. In the public library he had read the Communist Manifesto, but it just seemed like a political rant. He had had more fun with Freud’s Studies in Hysteria, which made a kind of detective story out of mental illness. He was looking forward to letting Joanne know, in a casual way, that he had read these books.

  He was determined to dance with Joanne at least once tonight, and after a while he went in search of her. She was not in the ballroom or the bar. Had he missed his chance? In trying not to show his desperation, had he been too passive? It was unbearable to think that the ball could end without his even having touched her shoulder.

  He stepped outside again. It was dark, but he saw her almost immediately. She was walking away from Greg Peshkov, looking a little flushed, as if she had been arguing with him. ‘You might be the only person here who isn’t a goddamned conservative,’ she said to Woody. She sounded a little drunk.

  Woody smiled. ‘Thanks for the compliment – I think.’

  ‘Do you know about the march tomorrow?’ she asked abruptly.

  He did. Strikers from the Buffalo Metal Works planned a demonstration to protest against the beating up of union men from New York. Woody guessed that was the subject of her argument with Greg: his father owned the factory. ‘I was planning to go,’ he said. ‘I might take some photographs.’

  ‘Bless you,’ she said, and she kissed him.

  He was so surprised that he almost failed to respond. For a second he stood there passively as she crushed her mouth to his, and he tasted whisky on her lips.

  Then he recovered his composure. He put his arms around her and pressed her body to his, feeling her breasts and her thighs press delightfully against him. Part of him feared she would be offended, push him away, and angrily accuse him of treating her disrespectfully; but a deeper instinct told him he was on safe ground.

  He had little experience of kissing girls – and none of kissing mature women of eighteen – but he liked the feel of her soft mouth so much that he moved his lips against hers in little nibbling motions that gave him exquisite pleasure, and he was rewarded by hearing her moan quietly.

  He was vaguely aware that if one of the older generation should walk by, there might be an embarrassing scene, but he was too aroused to care.

  Joanne’s mouth opened and he felt her tongue. This was new to him: the few girls he had kissed had not done that. But he figured she must know what she was doing, and anyway he really liked it. He imitated the motions of her tongue with his own. It was shockingly intimate and highly exciting. It must have been the right thing to do, because she moaned again.

  Summoning his nerve, he put his right hand on her left breast. It was wonderfully soft and heavy under the silk of her dress. As he caressed it he felt a small protuberance and thought, with a thrill of discovery, that it must be her nipple. He rubbed it with his thumb.

  She pulled away from him abruptly. ‘Good God,’ she said. ‘What am I doing?’

  ‘You’re kissing me,’ Woody said happily. He rested his hands on her round hips. He could feel the heat of her skin through the silk dress. ‘Let’s do it some more.’

  She pushed his hands away. ‘I must be out of my mind. This is the Racquet Club, for Christ’s sake.’

  Woody could see that the spell had been broken, an
d sadly there would be no more kissing tonight. He looked around. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘No one saw.’ He felt enjoyably conspiratorial.

  ‘I’d better go home, before I do something even more stupid.’

  He tried not to be offended. ‘May I escort you to your car?’

  ‘Are you crazy? If we walk in there together everyone will guess what we’ve been doing – especially with that dumb grin all over your face.’

  Woody tried to stop grinning. ‘Then why don’t you go inside and I’ll wait out here for a minute?’

  ‘Good idea.’ She walked away.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he called after her.

  She did not look back.

  (v)

  Ursula Dewar had her own small suite of rooms in the old Victorian mansion on Delaware Avenue. There was a bedroom, a bathroom and a dressing room; and after her husband died she had converted his dressing room into a little parlour. Most of the time she had the whole house to herself: Gus and Rosa spent a lot of time in Washington, and Woody and Chuck went to a boarding school. But when they came home she spent a good deal of the day in her own quarters.

  Woody went to talk to her on Sunday morning. He was still walking on air after Joanne’s kiss, though he had spent half the night trying to figure out what it had meant. It could signify anything from true love to true drunkenness. All he knew was that he could hardly wait to see Joanne again.

  He walked into his grandmother’s room behind the maid, Betty, as she took in the breakfast tray. He liked it that Joanne got angry about the way Betty’s Southern relations were treated. In politics, dispassionate argument was overrated, he felt. People should get angry about cruelty and injustice.

  Grandmama was already sitting up in bed, wearing a lace shawl over a mushroom-coloured silk nightgown. ‘Good morning, Woodrow!’ she said, surprised.

  ‘I’d like to have a cup of coffee with you, Grandmama, if I may.’ He had already asked Betty to bring two cups.

  ‘This is an honour,’ Ursula said.

  Betty was a grey-haired woman of about fifty with the kind of figure that was sometimes called comfortable. She set the tray in front of Ursula, and Woody poured coffee into Meissen cups.

  He had given some thought to what he would say, and had marshalled his arguments. Prohibition was over, and Lev Peshkov was now a legitimate businessman, he would contend. Furthermore, it was not fair to punish Daisy because her father had been a criminal – especially since most of the respectable families in Buffalo had bought his illegal booze.

  ‘Do you know Charlie Farquharson?’ he began.

  ‘Yes.’ Of course she did. She knew every family in the Buffalo ‘Blue Book’. She said: ‘Would you like a piece of this toast?’

  ‘No, thank you, I’ve had breakfast.’

  ‘Boys of your age never have enough to eat.’ She looked at him shrewdly. ‘Unless they’re in love.’

  She was on good form this morning.

  Woody said: ‘Charlie is kind of under the thumb of his mother.’

  ‘She kept her husband there, too,’ Ursula said drily. ‘Dying was the only way he could get free.’ She drank some coffee and started to eat her grapefruit with a fork.

  ‘Charlie came to me last night and asked me to ask you a favour.’

  She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  Woody took a breath. ‘He wants you to invite Mrs Peshkov to join the Buffalo Ladies Society.’

  Ursula dropped her fork, and there was a chime of silver on fine porcelain. As if covering her discomposure, she said: ‘Pour me some more coffee, please, Woody.’

  He did her bidding, saying nothing for the moment. He could not recall ever seeing her discombobulated.

  She sipped the coffee and said: ‘Why in the name of heaven would Charles Farquharson, or anyone else for that matter, want Olga Peshkov in the Society?’

  ‘He wants to marry Daisy.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘And he’s afraid his mother will object.’

  ‘He’s got that part right.’

  ‘But he thinks he might be able to talk her around . . .’

  ‘. . . if I let Olga into the Society.’

  ‘Then people might forget that her father was a gangster.’

  ‘A gangster?’

  ‘Well, a bootlegger at least.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Ursula said dismissively. ‘That’s not it.’

  ‘Really?’ It was Woody’s turn to be surprised. ‘What is it, then?’

  Ursula looked thoughtful. She was silent for such a long time that Woody wondered if she had forgotten he was there. Then she said: ‘Your father was in love with Olga Peshkov.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar.’

  ‘Sorry, Grandmama, you surprised me.’

  ‘They were engaged to be married.’

  ‘Engaged?’ he said, astonished. He thought for a minute, then said: ‘I suppose I’m the only person in Buffalo who doesn’t know about this.’

  She smiled at him. ‘There is a special mixture of wisdom and innocence that comes only to adolescents. I remember it so clearly in your father, and I see it in you. Yes, everyone in Buffalo knows, though your generation undoubtedly regard it as boring ancient history.’

  ‘Well, what happened?’ Woody said. ‘I mean, who broke it off?’

  ‘She did, when she got pregnant.’

  Woody’s mouth fell open. ‘By Papa?’

  ‘No, by her chauffeur – Lev Peshkov.’

  ‘He was the chauffeur?’ This was one shock after another. Woody was silent, trying to take it in. ‘My goodness, Papa must have felt such a fool.’

  ‘Your Papa was never a fool,’ Ursula said sharply. ‘The only foolish thing he did in his life was to propose to Olga.’

  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 w
ould 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.