Laura was about to jump in, about to tell Winifred that communists didn’t think that nobody was special, but luckily she caught herself in time. The last thing she wanted was for Winifred to start arguing with her about communism even before she had it straight in her own head, and when she was feeling so … what was she feeling? Just then they came to the bookshop where Winifred was to find a particular novel for Aunt Dee, and Laura was able to go to the back of the shop where the poetry was kept, and under the pretence of browsing she went on with her train of thought.
Why was it that she had kept Florence and Elsa and the Party secret from Winifred all this time? Deep down, she realised this could not go on. Sometimes everything came straight. The pamphlet that Florence had lent her recently had laid things out for her in a beautiful order, showing that one did not have to accept the corruption and dishonesty and the stifling soullessness of the world as it was. While she was reading, she had said to herself, I’ll join the Party properly, and tell Winifred, and move out and throw in my lot with Elsa and Florence. That’s what I’ll do. But once she had put the pamphlet away and gone out of her bedroom, she could not even form the words in her head that she would say to Winifred. The great impetus left her whenever she thought about living in the way that Florence and Elsa lived, rushing from tedious meeting to meeting, and returning to that cheerless apartment in the evenings. Just then, Winifred called to her and she put the book that she was pretending to look at back on the shelf.
After leaving the bookshop they walked up to the top of the hill where there was a dressmaker above a flower shop. Winifred bought most of her clothes ready-made, but wanted a dress altered for a dinner party that she was going to that weekend. They stood in the dusty light of the dressmaker’s room while Miss Spark pinned up the hem of the dress.
‘And I think I want these ruffled sleeves taken off,’ Winifred said. ‘What do you think, Laura? I could have it sleeveless.’
Laura had hardly been looking, but then she suddenly saw Winifred turning to view herself in the mirror, her neck rising out of the stiff green silk like a straight narcissus breaking out of its leaves. Miss Spark was trying to convince her to put some trimming in place of the sleeves, taking out a length of white net that she thought would be right, and some small white silk roses, but Winifred looked at them and discarded them, turning around again in front of the mirror, lifting her arms. No, not a flower, Laura thought. A bird.
‘I’m sorry you can’t come to the dinner,’ Winifred said as they walked down the stairs back to the street. ‘Giles was reluctant enough to take me – not that he’s taking me, of course, his friend Alistair is. One of the Initiates.’
Laura looked rather than asked the question, and Winifred explained how Giles and his very best friends had belonged to a society at university called the Initiates. ‘All they mean, I think, is that they are initiated into adoration of one another; it’s not that they are all that special, or all that gorgeous, or that successful, but you know what men are like – they need these secret societies, these movements and cliques, to feel comfortable. Wouldn’t life be nicer if people didn’t need all of that? Clubs.’ Winifred’s voice dropped into scorn on her last word.