But she looked in Aunt Dee’s Times newspaper, and saw no discussion about it at all; neither the next day, nor the following one. Reading the dense and impersonal reports of political speeches in the newspaper, she gradually came to understand that Halifax’s policy of non-intervention in Spain had not shifted in the slightest. In fact, nobody but her seemed to have heard about the protest, and gradually she came to realise that it had not rippled the quiet life of the Highgate household, let alone the government.
As the days went on, it was hard to imagine what would create ripples in Highgate. There was a constant decorum to life here, which was both reassuring and claustrophobic. As Winifred said, Aunt Dee seemed to think that the best way for Winifred to behave was the way laid down during her own youth; it was a repetitive round of visits and walks and luncheons with girls who had much the same manner and appearance as Winifred herself, together with French conversation lessons and piano practice, and games of cards and reading aloud with Aunt Dee in the evenings, or the occasional concert or trip to the theatre. This round of activity quite easily accommodated Laura, and it was only her pact with Winifred, which meant that once a fortnight or so the girls said they were going shopping or to tea with a friend, while each went their separate way for two or three hours, that caused a secret rift in the tight tapestry of good behaviour.
It was a few weeks after her arrival, when Winifred was meeting up with her boyfriend again and they had told Aunt Dee that they were going to the cinema, that Laura went to see Florence at the local party headquarters in King’s Cross. She had telephoned her that morning when Dee was busy with Mrs Venn, and Florence had told her where to come and explained they would go on to a meeting that Elsa was to speak at. But when Laura got to the little basement office, she found everything in confusion. Elsa was unwell, apparently, with a horrible sore throat, and Florence was talking to one Bill Ellis, the local party leader, about what to do. ‘It’s just a women’s group,’ Bill said.
‘It’s a branch of the Co-operative Women’s Guild,’ Florence said, ‘Elsa was keen to bring them in – said that they should be receptive to the message about the struggle on two fronts.’
‘Well, could you trot along and give them her apologies? If she really can’t speak, there’s nothing to be done about it.’
‘She gave me her notes,’ Florence said, and Laura noted the hopeful confidence that had so entranced her on the boat. ‘I’ll give the talk for her, it’s fine. I did lots of talks to women’s organisations in New York.’
‘This isn’t New York …’ Bill seemed wary of giving Florence the go-ahead, but then someone called him to the telephone and before going he succumbed, only asking whether she really did have Elsa’s notes and reminding her to stick to the line on the united front against fascism.
Florence reassured him, and turned to Laura, who was delighted at the thought of seeing her friend speak in public. It was the first time that they had seen each other alone since the protest, and as they walked to the house where the meeting was to take place, Laura tried to ask her about what had happened after the march. There was another one planned for Easter, and a fundraising pageant for Spain in a few weeks’ time, Florence told her. Laura realised it was not just her ignorance that meant she had not caught the fallout of the protest. It was true that nothing had changed, but for Florence there seemed to be nothing surprising in that failure; all the planned activities would continue regardless.
The part of London they were walking through now was closely built, the houses rearing up above them and almost cutting out the sky. It was one of those evenings that Laura had realised were characteristic of the city, with a dampness in the air which was infinitely suspended, never falling as rain, studding Florence’s hair and her old coat with tiny stars. But in the house where the meeting was to take place the light was cold from bulbs that hung bare from the ceiling, and everyone’s skin looked sallow. There were only about a dozen women in the room, sitting planted on small chairs, their bags on the floor at their sides, a stillness surrounding them. As the first speaker went through various pieces of business and reminded the women in the room to pay their membership dues, Laura waited for Florence to stand up and break through the solid atmosphere.