Joan is in bed but she is not asleep. The landing light filters into her darkened bedroom and her thoughts are punctuated by the small red flashes of the surveillance cameras installed at the beginning of the week, reminding her of what they think she might do. There is at least one camera in every room in the house. They do not intend to lose her, as they lost William. Or if they do, they intend to have it on tape.
The sting of Nick’s abrupt departure is still raw, twisting in Joan’s stomach. His words echo in her mind, and once again she wonders if it might be better if she simply doesn’t wake up tomorrow. Better for her. Better for Nick. She imagines for a moment that she might do it. Not with the sleeping pills but with the St. Christopher’s medal given to her by William as a parting gift, still there in her bedside table drawer. Just in case, he had written in the accompanying note, and she had been appalled by the very idea. Even if she had thought about it, she would not have pictured it happening like this. Not after so many years.
But then again, she had never thought William would do it either.
She knows that she needs to order her thoughts in readiness for the press conference later that day. All night she has lain awake, but the piece of paper upon which her statement is supposed to be written remains blank.
She knows that there is only one approach that would be acceptable—an apology, a display of sincere remorse—but the truth is that she has always believed what she did was a brave thing. Yes, if she had been more aware of the horrors perpetrated by the Soviet state at the time she would have had other reservations, but how could she have known? So little was known back then. And it still doesn’t really change anything. She didn’t do it to save the Revolution. She did it because of Hiroshima, because of the mushroom cloud pictures and the casualty figures and the reports of the terrible clawing heat. She did it because of the feel of her father’s hand in hers as he lay in bed recovering from his first heart attack, and because of the memory of him standing on the school stage, imploring his pupils to acknowledge their duty to each other. We are each responsible . . .
She knows that Nick’s plan could work. She can see that there is some truth in his assessment of what MI5 would be willing to accept. She could telephone him now and tell him she has changed her mind. She could tell MI5 that yes, she regrets allowing herself to be manipulated by those around her, that she should have reported her suspicions about Leo and Sonya at the time, that she believes William killed himself to avoid going to trial. Her story could then be amended to implicate him before being presented to the House of Commons. She can see that this would be the best thing to do, from a purely selfish viewpoint.
But every time she goes to write the words, she finds that her hand will not allow her to do it. The pen hovers over the page but it will not touch.
Because it’s not true, is it?
Or at least, most of it isn’t true, but she will not tell them what she knows of William. He deserves her discretion, after what he did for her. Thankfully, the files seem to be silent over this point, and Joan is relieved that she does not have to confess to how it ended. He covered his tracks well.
She closes her eyes. There is nothing to be done now but wait.
*
She telephones her mother from the phone box at the end of Sonya’s road to ask if she might come to stay for a few days.
She can tell that her mother is smiling at the other end of the line. ‘And to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?’
The soft familiarity of her mother’s voice causes a lump to rise at the back of Joan’s throat and she has to make an effort to sound normal. ‘Oh, no reason,’ she says. ‘I had a few days’ leave so I just thought I’d visit.’
‘Of course you can. You don’t need to ask.’
Her mother is there to meet her at the station, embracing her as she steps off the train. ‘You’re wearing your fur!’
Joan grins. ‘I thought I’d lost it. And don’t we need to return it at some point?’ Joan’s voice is muffled from being pressed into her mother’s shoulder.
‘I should think my cousin’s forgotten about it by now.’
‘Maybe.’ She glances at her mother’s foot. ‘How’s your limp?’
‘It’s not so bad. Don’t tell me off for walking to meet you. I wanted to come. I’ve missed you.’ She smiles. ‘Not that I’m lonely without your dad. Don’t go getting that into your head. I miss him—of course I miss him—but I’m absolutely fine.’ She glances at Joan conspiratorially. ‘I’ve joined a choir.’
‘But you can’t sing.’
‘That was just your father’s opinion. I always knew I had quite a nice voice, and the choir mistress seems to think so too.’ She pauses, and then continues shyly: ‘There’s a concert next week. You don’t have to come, but if you were free . . . ’ She tails off. ‘It’d be nice, that’s all.’
Joan feels the faint pulsing of her heart. ‘Of course I’ll come,’ she says, even though she knows that so much might have changed by next week that she cannot say anything for certain. She leans across and kisses her mother’s cheek, and inhales the faint lavender smell of her, the smell of childhood, of comfort, of being told that everything can be made better again. They cross the road and a car pulls slowly to a halt beside the kerb. Her mother barely acknowledges it, but when they pass in front of it Joan sees that there are two men sitting behind the dashboard, neither speaking to the other, their unblinking eyes seeming to be fixed on her. She hears the car slip into gear and pull away behind her, the windows dark and impenetrable as it passes.
A butterfly shivers across her heart.
It’s just a car, she thinks. It’s nothing.
Her mother glances at her. ‘I hope you’re not working too hard. You look awfully thin.’
Joan raises her eyebrows. Her mother always says she is looking thin when she means something else. ‘Am I?’ she asks, although this time she wonders if it might be true. She has always been slim, but recently she has noticed her clothes slipping more than usual. ‘It must be the rationing,’ she says. She glances behind her. The car is nowhere to be seen.
‘Yes, I suppose it must.’ Her mother pauses. ‘I was thinking I ought to fit you for your bridesmaid’s dress while you’re here.’
‘Might as well.’
‘You don’t mind, do you? The fitting, I mean.’
They turn in through the gate of the school and follow the path around to the lodge. They have had this conversation before: her mother being utterly convinced that Joan minds her younger sister getting married before she does and that this is why she has been acting so strangely. They have discussed it perhaps ten times over the phone and each time Joan has insisted that she doesn’t mind. ‘No,’ she says. ‘And before you ask again, I’m very happy that Lally has found someone she wants to marry. I’m delighted for her.’
‘But you do mind a little bit, don’t you?’ her mother insists, aware that something is wrong with her eldest daughter and unable to fathom what else it might be.
‘No.’ How Joan wishes she could tell her everything, explain everything, and then close her eyes in a lavender-scented embrace and believe, just for a moment, that everything would be all right.
‘Just a little bit. I know you do.’
‘Really, Mother. I don’t. The only situation in which I might mind Lally getting married would be if Jack was the only man in the whole world I thought I could ever love, but I don’t. I don’t even like him very much.’
‘Joanie! You mustn’t say such things about him. He’s going to be family soon.’
‘I’m only saying it to you, and I know you think it too.’
‘Joanie!’ Her expression is one of guilty outrage. ‘I don’t think I ever did say such a thing. Or if I did, it was a long time ago.’ A pause. Her mother nods to herself as she turns away, and her words are muffled by her collar, but Joan can still hear them. ‘I knew you minded a little bit.’
And so it goes on, round and round, until they reach the house and her mother bustles off to the kitchen, and Joan can slip upstairs to her old bedroom to put her bags down. There is a letter on the dressing table, postmarked from the previous day. She recognises William’s writing on the envelope, but there is no letter inside; just a folded page of newspaper with a red line carefully encircling a short news report at the bottom of the page below an advertisement for domestic bleach.
Tragic Family, the headline reads. A small white Rover with a curved silver bumper and a dent in the passenger door is reported to have been abandoned at the docks in Harwich. There is a note in the glove compartment, and a hat fished from the water a little way down the coast. The hat is identified as having belonged to Mrs. Sonya Wilcox of The Warren, Firdene, Norfolk and, a few hours later, an overcoat belonging to Mr. Jamie Wilcox is also recovered. Inquest closed with final verdict of suicide, although no bodies have yet been found. No further investigations pending.
Joan feels cold all over. She reads it again and then carefully tucks it into the back of the grate, ready to set alight later. She knows they will not find any bodies. The hat and coat must have been planted to make them so easily traceable. There will have been a dry-cleaning ticket in one of them or an old name tape, something subtle yet obvious to allow ease of reference. It is one of the things Sonya once told her: that you can make anyone think anything you want them to, so long as you also make them think they have figured it out for themselves. Besides, it is too neat, too tidy. Joan remembers how Sonya always said that if she ever had to escape from England she would go back to Switzerland via Italy, first heading south by sea and then north through the mountains. She wonders if William helped them too. Perhaps that was how he knew to look out for the article.
Why had Sonya not had time to say goodbye? Why had she not warned her?
She imagines their car turning into the docks at Harwich, headlights dipped into the dawn and Sonya’s dark hair wrapped up in her favourite silk scarf. (‘It’s far less conspicuous to look beautiful than to look worried,’ she had once said when Joan admitted to being anxious before one of their meetings.) What was she thinking as they stepped out of the car and onto the boat? Perhaps she was thinking of Leo. Of Jamie, next to her, carrying their luggage. Of her daughter, Katya, wrapped up in her arms. Of Joan. Of the test bomb in Russia, that breathless burst of atoms, red and gold and almost beautiful from a distance. Or was she thinking of home, of her long-ago mother, of the house by the lake in Leipzig where she had holidayed in summer with Leo and Uncle Boris?
How long would that journey down to Italy take? Three days in a small boat? She imagines the three of them huddled below deck among ropes and tarpaulin and droplets of sea collecting in pools on the wooden boarded floor. Joan shivers. Such an odd idea, to leave like that, with such finality. But also quite dramatic, Joan thinks, and she finds herself suddenly unsurprised that this was how Sonya chose to leave.
But who will be next? Will this be how she has to leave, when it is her turn?
Joan tries to imagine this but she cannot do it. She imagines her mother and sister being called to the scene, her mother’s face ashen and wide-eyed. My child, she might cry, my child. Joan feels the pulsing of blood in her heart, a sense of bursting flesh, as if someone is shining a torch inside her mouth and up towards her brain. No, she thinks. No, no, no.
Her mother does the fitting that evening, wanting to get it out of the way before dinner. The material for the bridesmaid’s dress is soft, pink cotton shot through with silk. It is pre-war material, bought up years before, just in case one of the girls should need it. Or both of them, her mother had hoped at one time although she would not admit to this now. Lally’s dress is a heavy satin number with a covering of matching lace at the front. It is cut into a tight fishtail, so that it swings around when she tries it on and twirls in front of the mirror. Which she does. Often. Although not while Joan is there.
‘Such a lovely colour on you,’ Joan’s mother says, and for a moment her eyes mist a little, threatening to break out. ‘I just wish your father . . . ’ She shakes her head. ‘Listen to me going on.’
‘It’s fine, Mum. You can talk about him if you want.’
‘Oh, I do. I talk to him as well. He’s a good listener now, better than when he was alive.’ She laughs, and presses the tear that is glistening on her lower eyelash. ‘He was so proud of you, Joanie. I wish you could have heard how he spoke about you. He always said you were going to do something marvellous.’
Joan nods. She feels a terrible ache in her chest, as if someone has wrapped their hands around her heart and is pumping it out of time. ‘Silly,’ she whispers.
But for the first and only time in Joan’s life, her mother does not agree with this statement. She shakes her head. ‘No, Joanie. Not silly. I was the silly one. Your father was right to be proud of you.’ She puts her hand firmly on Joan’s back. ‘Now stand there and don’t move.’
There is a pause, and for a moment Joan considers telling her mother everything.
‘Terrible news about that bomb in Russia,’ her mother says suddenly. She does not look up but takes a handful of pins out of her tin and then holds each of them by the sharp point between her lips, so that her mouth is a row of spikes. She has always done this. It is one of Joan’s earliest memories, being told to stand up straight while her mother pinned linens and cottons under her arms and around her waist, her mouth so full of pins that Joan was scared to move in case she surprised her mother and caused her to swallow them. She thinks of those months before she left for Cambridge, her mother planning and stitching her University Trousseau in spite of her opposition, plotting ways of finding a fur coat to make her look the part, all of it parcelled up and packed into her trunk for her to open once she had arrived.
‘Yes.’
‘They thay,’ her mother lisps, removing the pins one by one and pulling the fabric out straight so that she can make sure the hem fans evenly around her, ‘they think the Ruthians mutht have had a thpy.’ She removes the two final pins from her mouth and stands back, surveying her handiwork, and then she pinches the material just below Joan’s bosom and pins it symmetrically, more or less, so that the bust is accentuated. ‘They think it’s a British scientist.’
A pause. Joan’s breaths are suddenly shallow.
‘It’s all nonsense anyway, that’s what your father says. Said,’ she corrects herself. ‘All wars start because of secrets.’
‘So if there were no secrets . . . ’ Joan whispers.
Her mother frowns, considering this, and then shrugs. ‘If only everyone would play nicely,’ she says airily, and the moment of vindication that had appeared to be hovering above Joan evaporates.
‘But they don’t have any evidence anyway,’ Joan continues. ‘They’re only saying they’ve got a suspect to keep the Americans happy, to show they’re doing something.’
Her mother looks at her in astonishment. She shakes her head slowly. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Haven’t you heard? It was on the radio this morning. They’re holding that Cambridge professor in Brixton Prison until it goes to trial. So there must be something to base the charges on. Now lift your arms.’
Joan holds her arms out at the sides so that her mother can pin the waistline of her dress, tugging the joins of material tighter and tighter against her ribs until Joan can hardly breathe. Does this mean they have actually found some evidence? She sees the furrow of her mother’s brow as she bends forward to adjust the waistline of the dress, and she feels a shot of panic rising up inside her. She breathes in, out, in again.
Her mother steps back. ‘There,’ she says. ‘Beautiful.’ She pauses. ‘Joan? Are you all right? You look rather pale.’