by Ken Follett
Woody guessed the man had spent a lot of time repelling reporters, and he forgave the discourteous tone. He recalled the name of the Rouzrokhs’ maid. ‘Please ask Miss Estella to tell Joanne that Woody Dewar has a book for her.’
‘You can leave it with me,’ said the guard, holding out his hand.
Woody held on firmly to the book. ‘Thanks, but no.’
The guard looked annoyed, but he walked Woody up the drive and rang the doorbell. Estella opened it and said at once: ‘Hello, Mr Woody, come in – Joanne will be so glad to see you!’ Woody permitted himself a triumphant glance at the guard as he stepped inside.
Estella showed him into an empty drawing room. She offered him milk and cookies, as if he were still a kid, and he declined politely. Joanne came in a minute later. Her face was drawn and her olive skin looked washed-out, but she smiled pleasantly at him and sat down to chat.
She was pleased with the book. ‘Now I’ll have to read Dr Freud instead of just gabbing about him,’ she said. ‘You’re a good influence on me, Woody.’
‘I wish I could be a bad influence.’
She let that pass. ‘Aren’t you going to the ball?’
‘I have a ticket but if you’re not there I’m not interested. Would you like to go to a movie instead?’
‘No, thanks, really.’
‘Or we could just get dinner. Somewhere really quiet. If you don’t mind taking the bus.’
‘Oh, Woody, of course I don’t mind the bus, but you’re too young for me. Anyway, the summer’s almost over. You’ll be back at school soon, and I’m going to Vassar.’
‘Where you’ll go on dates, I guess.’
‘I sure hope so!’
Woody stood up. ‘Okay, well, I’m going to take a vow of celibacy and enter a monastery. Please don’t come and visit me, you’ll distract the other brethren.’
She laughed. ‘Thank you for taking my mind off my family’s troubles.’
It was the first time she had mentioned what had happened to her father. He had not been planning to raise the subject but, now that she had, he said: ‘You know we’re all on your side. Nobody believes that actress’s story. Everyone in town realizes it was a set-up by that swine Lev Peshkov, and we’re furious about it.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But the accusation alone is too shameful for my father to bear. I think my parents are going to move to Florida.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you. Now go to the ball.’
‘Maybe I will.’
She walked him to the door.
‘May I kiss you goodbye?’ he said.
She leaned forward and kissed his lips. This was not like the last kiss, and he knew instinctively not to grab her and press his mouth to hers. It was a gentle kiss, her lips on his for a sweet moment that was over in a breath. Then she pulled away and opened the front door.
‘Goodnight,’ Woody said as he stepped out.
‘Goodbye,’ said Joanne.
(viii)
Greg Peshkov was in love.
He knew that Jacky Jakes had been bought for him by his father, as his reward for helping to entrap Dave Rouzrokh, but despite that it was real love.
He had lost his virginity a few minutes after they had returned from the precinct house, and the two of them had then spent most of a week in bed at the Ritz-Carlton. Greg did not need to use birth control, she told him, because she was already ‘fixed up’. He had only the vaguest idea what that meant, but he took her at her word.
He had never been so happy in his life, and he adored her, especially when she dropped the little-girl act and revealed a shrewd intelligence and a mordant sense of humour. She admitted that she had seduced Greg on his father’s orders, but confessed that against her will she had fallen in love. Her real name was Mabel Jakes and, although she pretended to be nineteen, she was in fact just sixteen, only a few months older than Greg.
Lev had promised her a part in a movie but, he said, he was still looking for just the right role. In a perfect imitation of Lev’s vestigial Russian accent she said: ‘But I don’t guess he’s lookin’ too fuckin’ hard.’
‘I guess there aren’t many parts written for Negro actors,’ Greg said.
‘I know, I’ll end up playing the maid, rolling my eyes and saying “Lawdy”. There are Africans in plays and films – Cleopatra, Hannibal, Othello – but they’re usually played by white actors.’ Her father, now dead, had been a professor in a Negro college, and she knew more about literature than Greg did. ‘Anyway, why should Negroes only play black people? If Cleopatra can be played by a white actress, why can’t Juliet be black?’
‘People would find it strange.’
‘People would get used to it. They get used to anything. Does Jesus have to be played by a Jew? Nobody cares.’
She was right, Greg thought, but, all the same, it was never going to happen.
When Lev had announced their return to Buffalo – leaving it until the last minute, as usual – Greg had been devastated. He had asked his father if Jacky could come to Buffalo, but Lev had laughed and said: ‘Son, you don’t shit where you eat. You can see her next time you come to Washington.’
Despite that, Jacky had followed him to Buffalo a day later and moved into a cheap apartment near Canal Street.
Lev and Greg had been busy for the next couple of weeks with the takeover of Roseroque Theatres. Dave had sold for two million in the end, a quarter of the original offer, and Greg’s admiration for his father went up another notch. Jacky had withdrawn her charges and hinted to the newspapers that she had accepted a cash settlement. Greg was awestruck by his father’s callous nerve.
And he had Jacky. He told his mother he was out every night with male friends but, in fact, he spent all his spare time with Jacky. He showed her around town, picnicked with her at the beach, even managed to take her out in a borrowed speedboat. No one connected her with the rather blurred newspaper photograph of a girl walking out of the Ritz-Carlton hotel in a bathrobe. But mostly they spent the warm summer evenings having sweaty, deliriously happy sex, tangling the worn sheets on the narrow bed in her small apartment. They decided to get married as soon as they were old enough.
Tonight he was taking her to the Yacht Club Ball.
It had been extraordinarily difficult to get tickets, but Greg had bribed a school friend.
He had bought Jacky a new dress, pink satin. He got a generous allowance from Marga, and Lev loved to slip him fifty bucks now and again, so he always had more money than he needed.
In the back of his mind a warning was sounding. Jacky would be the only Negro at the ball not serving drinks. She was very reluctant to go, but Greg had talked her round. The young men would envy him but the older ones might be hostile, he knew. There would be some muttering. Jacky’s beauty and charm would overcome much prejudice, he felt: how could anyone resist her? But if some fool got drunk and insulted her, Greg would teach him a lesson with both fists.
Even as he thought this, he heard his mother telling him not to be a love-struck fool. But a man could not go through life listening to his mother.
As he walked along Canal Street in white tie and tails, he looked forward to seeing her in the new dress, and maybe kneeling to lift the hem up until he could see her panties and garter belt.
He entered her building, an old house now subdivided. There was a threadbare red carpet on the stairs and a smell of spicy cooking. He let himself into the apartment with his own key.
The place was empty.
That was odd. Where would she go without him?
With fear in his heart, he opened the closet. The pink satin ball dress hung there on its own. Her other clothes were gone.
‘No!’ he said aloud. How could this happen?
On the rickety pine table was an envelope. He picked it up and saw his name on the front in Jacky’s neat, schoolgirl handwriting. A feeling of dread came over him.
He tore open the envelope with shaky hands and read the short messa
ge.
My darling Greg,
The last three weeks have been the happiest time of my entire life. I knew in my heart that we couldn’t ever get married but it was nice to pretend. You are a lovely boy and will grow into a fine man, if you don’t take after your father too much.
Had Lev found out that Jacky was living here, and somehow made her leave? He would not do that – would he?
Goodbye and don’t forget me.
Your Gift,
Jacky
Greg crumpled the paper and wept.
(ix)
‘You look wonderful,’ Eva Rothmann said to Daisy Peshkov. ‘If I was a boy, I’d fall in love with you in a minute.’
Daisy smiled. Eva was already a little bit in love with her. And Daisy did look wonderful, in an ice-blue silk organdie ball gown that deepened the blue of her eyes. The skirt of the dress had a frilled hem that was ankle length in front but rose playfully to mid-calf behind, giving a tantalizing glimpse of Daisy’s legs in sheer stockings.
She wore a sapphire necklace of her mother’s. ‘Your father bought me that, back in the days when he was still occasionally nice to me,’ Olga said. ‘But hurry up, Daisy, you’re making us all late.’
Olga was wearing matronly navy blue, and Eva was in red, which suited her dark colouring.
Daisy walked down the stairs on a cloud of happiness.
They stepped out of the house. Henry, the gardener, doubling as chauffeur tonight, opened the doors of the shiny old black Stutz.
This was Daisy’s big night. Tonight Charlie Farquharson would formally propose to her. He would offer her a diamond ring that was a family heirloom – she had seen and approved it, and it had been altered to fit her. She would accept his proposal, and then they would announce their engagement to everyone at the ball.
She got into the car feeling like Cinderella.
Only Eva had expressed doubts. ‘I thought you’d go for someone who was more of a match for you,’ she had said.
‘You mean a man who won’t let me boss him around,’ Daisy had replied.
‘No, but someone more like you, good-looking and charming and sexy.’
This was unusually sharp for Eva: it implied that Charlie was homely and charmless and unglamorous. Daisy had been taken aback, and did not know how to reply.
Her mother had saved her. Olga had said: ‘I married a man who was good-looking and charming and sexy, and he made me utterly miserable.’
Eva had said no more.
As the car approached the Yacht Club, Daisy vowed to restrain herself. She must not show how triumphant she felt. She must act as if there was nothing unexpected about her mother being asked to join the Buffalo Ladies Society. As she showed the other girls her enormous diamond, she would be so gracious as to declare that she did not deserve someone as wonderful as Charlie.
She had plans to make him even more wonderful. As soon as the honeymoon was over she and Charlie would start building their stable of racehorses. In five years they would be entering the most prestigious races around the world: Saratoga Springs, Longchamps, Royal Ascot.
Summer was turning to fall, and it was dusk when the car drew up at the pier. ‘I’m afraid we may be very late tonight, Henry,’ Daisy said gaily.
‘Quite all right, Miss Daisy,’ he replied. He adored her. ‘You have a wonderful time, now.’
At the door, Daisy noticed Victor Dixon following them in. Feeling well disposed towards everyone, she said: ‘So, Victor, your sister met the King of England. Congratulations!’
‘Mm, yes,’ he said, looking embarrassed.
They entered the club. The first person they saw was Ursula Dewar, who had agreed to accept Olga into her snobby club. Daisy smiled warmly at her and said: ‘Good evening, Mrs Dewar.’
Ursula seemed distracted. ‘Excuse me, just a moment,’ she said, and moved away across the lobby. She thought herself a queen, Daisy reflected, but did that mean she had no need of good manners? One day Daisy would rule over Buffalo society, but she would be unfailingly gracious to all, she vowed.
The three women went into the ladies’ room, where they checked their appearance in the mirrors, in case anything had gone wrong in the twenty minutes since they had left home. Dot Renshaw came in, looked at them, and went out again. ‘Stupid girl,’ Daisy said.
But her mother looked worried. ‘What’s happening?’ she said. ‘We’ve been here five minutes, and already three people have snubbed us!’
‘Jealousy,’ Daisy said. ‘Dot would like to marry Charlie herself.’
Olga said: ‘At this point Dot Renshaw would like to marry more or less anybody, I guess.’
‘Come on, let’s enjoy ourselves,’ said Daisy, and she led the way out.
As she entered the ballroom, Woody Dewar greeted her. ‘At last, a gentleman!’ Daisy said.
In a lowered voice he said: ‘I just want to say that I think it’s wrong of people to blame you for anything your father might have done.’
‘Especially when they all bought their booze from him!’ she replied.
Then she saw her future mother-in-law, in a ruched pink gown that did nothing for her angular figure. Nora Farquharson was not ecstatic about her son’s choice of bride, but she had accepted Daisy and had been charming to Olga when they had exchanged visits. ‘Mrs Farquharson!’ Daisy said. ‘What a lovely dress!’
Nora Farquharson turned her back and walked away.
Eva gasped.
A feeling of horror came over Daisy. She turned back to Woody. ‘This isn’t about bootlegging, is it?’
‘No.’
‘What, then?’
‘You must ask Charlie. Here he comes.’
Charlie was perspiring, though it was not warm. ‘What’s going on?’ Daisy asked him. ‘Everyone’s giving me the cold shoulder!’
He was terribly nervous. ‘People are so angry at your family,’ he said.
‘What for?’ she cried.
Several people nearby heard her raised voice and looked around. She did not care.
Charlie said: ‘Your father ruined Dave Rouzrokh.’
‘Are you talking about that incident in the Ritz-Carlton? What has that got to do with me?’
‘Everyone likes Dave, even though he’s Persian or something. And they don’t believe he would rape anybody.’
‘I never said he did!’
‘I know,’ Charlie said. He was clearly in agony.
People were frankly staring, now: Victor Dixon, Dot Renshaw, Chuck Dewar.
Daisy said to Charlie: ‘But I’m going to be blamed. Is that so?’
‘Your father did a terrible thing.’
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 G
erman. 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.’
