The White Dove

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

Amy glanced at her watch. ‘Half past six.’

‘Everything will be all over, then,’ the man said. His voice sounded flat and, for the first time, uncertain. They began to walk together, still in silence, heading automatically for Trafalgar Square. When they reached it the crowds had evaporated. There were just the ordinary passers-by, a pair of patrolling policemen and a handful of men dismantling the makeshift platform.

‘Which way is Downing Street?’

Amy pointed. There was no sign of the long column of miners, or any of the crowds and placards that had filled the afternoon.

The man turned in a circle, looking all round him. ‘Well,’ he said, and Amy suddenly saw how tired he was. ‘That’s that, then. I wonder where they’ve gone?’

‘I read in one of the papers,’ Amy said carefully, ‘that the marchers were to be put up while they were in London in Bethnal Green Town Hall.’

‘Ah.’ The man’s smile was wry. ‘And which way is that?’

Amy pointed eastwards down the Strand. He hitched his jacket around him, still smiling. ‘I’d better start off that way, then.’

‘Wait.’ Amy was thinking quickly. I’m on your side, she wanted to say, remembering Hyde Park and the flapping of the boots as the men marched past her. I always will be, however uselessly. But there was something about this man that disconcerted her. There were two pound notes in her bag, but he wasn’t the kind of man to have money pressed into his hand.

What kind of man was he, then?

‘Why did you steal that paper from Jake’s wallet?’

The man was much taller than Amy. He looked down at her and she saw that he had unusual grey-green eyes, and that he was amused.

‘Steal it? To eat, perhaps? Or to start a fire to keep warm by? Listen, whoever you are. Written on that piece of paper were addresses that are important to us. Addresses of Communist Party organizers, sympathizers, the whole network. Better that the police shouldn’t see it if they come to see him and happen to search him.’

‘The police?’ Amy was going to protest They wouldn’t, and then she remembered the big horses with their shiny hooves.

The man gestured his impatience with her. ‘Of course. Jake Silverman is a dangerous Communist agitator.’ Amy bent her head to escape his grey, distant stare.

As she looked down at the paving stones she saw her own polished shoes with their elegant toes pointing at the miner’s worn, gaping boots.

Amy forgot his hostility. There was something she could do to help him, she thought. There was no need for him to trudge the last miles to Bethnal Green in those boots, and there was no need either to risk his scorn by trying to give him money. Bruton Street was a big house full of bedrooms that no one would occupy tonight. It was her home, and she could invite this man to stay the night there as her guest. As soon as the thought came to her she looked up and met his eyes again.

‘If you haven’t got anywhere to stay tonight,’ she said at last, ‘you could have a bed at my home.’

His eyebrows went up into black peaks.

‘Your home? And where’s that?’

His coldness angered her. She had made her impulsive offer in a spirit of straightforward friendliness, and she wanted him to accept it in the same way.

‘Does it matter where it is?’ she snapped.

The miner shrugged. ‘Not really. I’m sure it will be better than the Spike. Shall we go, then?’

There was a taxi passing them. Amy flung up her arm and it rumbled to the kerb. The cabbie scowled at the miner, but Amy wrenched open the door and scrambled inside and the man followed her.

‘Bruton Street,’ she called sharply through the partition, and the driver muttered something about it being fine for some people, as they trundled grudgingly away. The man leaned back and closed his eyes, and she saw the exhaustion in his face. Her anger evaporated, bafflingly.

‘My name’s Amy,’ she said.

‘Nick Penry,’ he answered without opening his eyes. After a moment he added, ‘Thank you. I don’t know where Bethnal Green is, but I don’t want to walk there tonight.’

‘You come from Nantlas, don’t you?’

She was aware of his quick sidelong glance at her now but she kept her face turned away, pretending to be watching the streets sliding past.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw you under the banner. At Hyde Park. I … know someone else from there.’

‘Do you, indeed? That surprises me a little.’ Nick Penry’s eyes were closed again and Amy continued to stare out of the window, her cheeks reddened. Neither of them spoke again until they rolled into Bruton Street.

Damn you, Amy thought.

She had been wondering what to do with the man once they were home. Where would she put him? What was he expecting? It was not a situation that Miss Abbott’s social deportment lessons had prepared her for.

Now she decided. This sharp, unsettling man would be treated just like any other guest in their house. Gerald was at Chance and Adeline was occupied with a new friend. That would make it easier, she thought, and at once felt that she was compromising her new allegiances by being grateful for that.

On the steps in front of the tall doors Amy ceremonially rang the bell instead of using her key. One of the footmen opened the door.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Amy.’

Inside, she said crisply, ‘This is Mr Penry. He will be staying the night. Perhaps it would be easiest if one of the maids made up Mr Richard’s room for him. And Mr Penry has been separated from his luggage. Would you see that some things are laid out for him? We’ll be ready for dinner at … oh, eight, I should think.’

‘Very good, Miss Amy.’

Nick Penry looked up from the marble floor to the high curve of the stairs and the crystal waterfall of the huge chandelier spilling light over them. There was an inlaid table encrusted with gilt with a silver tray on it and the afternoon’s post laid neatly out. Amy had automatically picked up her letters. It was very quiet; the muffled, dignified silence of money and privilege. Under the curve of the stairway with a scroll-backed sofa covered in pale green silk beneath it, there was a huge, dim oil painting of a big house. Row upon row of windows looked out expressionlessly over drowsy parkland.

Nick pointed to it. ‘That’s the country place, is it?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ He was grinning at her, and there was a taunt in it that made her angry again.

‘Jesus Christ. Who are you?’

‘Amy Lovell.’

‘Should I be any the wiser?’

‘If you aren’t,’ Amy said, surprised at the tartness in her voice, ‘I’ll elaborate. My father is Lord Lovell. The Lords Lovell have been the King’s Defenders since the fourteenth century.’

‘How nice. Does that make you Lady Lovell?’

‘Of course not. That’s my mother. My title, by courtesy only, is the Honourable Amalia Lovell. My friends call me Amy.’

‘I see,’ Nick Penry said, pointedly not calling her anything. They stood underneath the chandelier, staring at each other.