Page 53 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)
‘Oh.’ She looked down again, and separated a forkful of fillet. ‘But it’s bound to be on the cinema newsreels, anyway. So nobody needs a television receiver.’
‘Quite,’ said Oliver.
Basil turned twenty-one in January 1937, and went home for the weekend for this remarkable fact to be celebrated.
Barbara came with her husband and child, and everyone made a very pleasant fuss of him.
His father shook his hand, and said, ‘Now we’re not responsible for you any more,’ and though he smiled, Basil suspected he wasn’t entirely joking.
He gave him a handsome watch; Barbara and Freddie gave him a silver hunting flask engraved with his name; and Michael sent a telegram from Yorktown.
‘You’re looking better than when I last saw you,’ Helen said, automatically brushing back a stray lock of his hair. ‘I think you’re turning into quite a handsome man.’
Barbara protested: ‘He was always handsome, Mummy.’
‘Is he turning into a responsible man, that’s the question,’ Jack said. ‘How are you getting on at work?’
‘I’m working hard,’ Basil said. ‘It’s interesting.’
The incorrigibly honest part of himself, which he was not able completely to suppress, acknowledged that it was partly Miranda Byrne who was interesting.
Since that first party they had gone out together every week, always – was it tact on her part?
He was never sure – to things that didn’t cost money: galleries, exhibitions, lectures, political meetings.
There were parties now and then, very much like the first one, where people talked earnestly about the injustice of the way the world was run, and what ought to be done about it.
He longed sometimes for a night-club and some dancing – anything frivolous.
But when it came down to it, it was better to go out even to a Communist rally with Miranda than to rot alone in his room at Mrs Morgan’s.
He was being exposed to new viewpoints, and as he naturally went to Miranda for analysis, he was inevitably beginning to take on some of her seriousness.
In bed at night he sometimes mourned the passing of the old Basil – or at least his retreat into hiding – but at any rate, it was a novel pleasure to have his parents approve of him.
‘But do you have a sweetie?’ Barbara asked impatiently. ‘If so, we have to meet her, to see if she’s good enough for you.’
‘Oh, she’s far too good for me,’ he said unwarily.
‘So there is someone! Is she pretty? Does she love you?’
‘Steady on, Babsy. It’s not like that. She’s a work colleague. We go to meetings and things together, but we’re just friends.’
‘Oh, poor Bozzy! What a horrid girl! How can she be so hard-hearted?’
He laughed. ‘She’s the boss’s niece, that’s how!’ And he changed the subject.
In truth, he didn’t know how Miranda felt about him.
She treated him with the brisk matter-of-factness she seemed to show everyone at work.
And yet he felt there was undeniably a tension between them, the sort that was always there between a man and a woman, rather than, say, a brother and sister.
It gave him hope that something would develop. He had had a lover once. He missed it.
All the comrades, as Basil called them in his own mind, were very exercised by the Spanish Civil War, to which he had paid little attention before.
It was interesting to learn from Miranda that while general opinion and most news articles talked about there being two sides – the Fascists under Franco, and the Republicans, who had formed the legitimate government they had ousted – there were in fact three.
‘It’s not just a civil war any more,’ she told him.
‘There’s a revolution going on. The Communists don’t want to restore the old government, they want a complete change, government by the people, Soviet-style.
Complete equality. If you saw how the peasants live, how badly the working classes are treated, Basil, you’d want revolution for them too. ’
Miranda’s Uncle Gilbert was also deeply interested in the war, and ran a series of articles on the subject in the Messenger , to which Basil contributed.
His name did not appear on any of them, but Mr Dickins was impressed by his work and told him so, and Miranda somehow came to hear about it, congratulated him, and looked at him, he thought, in a more respectful light.
One dull February day, when they met after work, Miranda said, ‘There’s a café just along the road. Let’s go and have a cup of tea. I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.’
The café was warm and steamy, full of people in damp coats and the smell of bottled coffee.
Luckily two people were leaving as they entered, so they got the reversion to a tiny table in the window.
Outside it was already dark, and the damp pavement glistened, smeared with colour from the traffic lights and illuminated street signs.
People hurried past, huddled under umbrellas, figures that were strangely elongated by the rivulets running down the window.
There was something rather French Impressionist about the scene and, not for the first time, Basil wished he could paint.
His reverie was interrupted by Miranda smacking down two cups of mahogany tea, scraping out her chair, and sitting, elbows on the table, leaning forward for emphasis. ‘Have you ever thought about going to Spain?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Several newspapers have sent reporters over there, for eye-witness accounts. The people deserve to know what’s really going on. We ought to have our own special correspondent in Spain.’
‘But what has it got to do with us?’ Basil asked tentatively.
‘The future of Europe could be at stake! Aren’t you frustrated by the lack of information?’ She leaned forward another inch. ‘You know how keen Uncle Gilbert is on the war. I bet he’d be all for it, if it was put to him – especially if he knew there was someone ready and eager to go.’
‘You mean me ?’ He couldn’t quite mask his horror.
‘Imagine actually being there, while history was being made, and seeing it all for oneself, with one’s own eyes! And, better still, being able to influence the outcome! If I were a man, I wouldn’t hesitate to volunteer. I can’t go – but you could!’
Her eyes shone, and having initially rejected the idea as potty, he began to think about it.
There was a part of his mind that reeled at the idea of settling down and becoming a respectable tax-payer.
A part that wanted excitement and adventure.
And, besides, if he did this, clearly she would admire him for it. Nothing else so far had worked.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said. ‘My father was talking about another war coming and how I ought to get myself into one of the services so as to be ready. And I told him I would rather be a war correspondent, because someone has to report from the Front.’
‘I knew you were the right person! Oh, Basil, it will be the best thing you ever did!’
That was a fairly narrow field, Basil thought, but Miranda had reached a hand across the table and clasped his, the first time she had voluntarily touched him. He was so entranced, all reason fled. ‘I’ll do it!’ he said.
Dickins had not shown any surprise when Basil accosted him the next morning and asked to be allowed to volunteer to go to Spain. He simply nodded and said he would take him to see Mr Comstock right away. That ought to have seemed odd to Basil, had he been thinking straight.
And, strangely, Mr Comstock did not question the idea at all – as if it had already been decided.
He simply stood up and reached across the desk to shake Basil’s hand, and said, ‘Excellent, my boy! You’re exactly the sort of chap we want for the job.
We’ll make all the travel arrangements, and you’ll be on full pay, plus reasonable expenses. Sit down, sit down!’
Basil learned that he was to proceed to Barcelona to join a militia, and send back regular reports on the progress of the war.
He would have full press accreditation, which should secure him access and privileges everywhere, and enable him to ferret out the political and strategic thinking behind the actions he witnessed.
But, most of all, he was to be one of the ordinary soldiers, and report on their day-to-day life.
Basil was too excited, and too impressed with his own daring, to wonder how they had thought it out so quickly.
‘You won’t be going alone,’ Comstock said. ‘Mr Zennor has volunteered to go as well. You’ll be able to support each other and compare notes.’
‘Mr Zennor?’ Basil said, bewildered.
‘Mr Dickins says you get on well.’
‘Yes, sir. I like him,’ Basil said, beginning to think of questions.
‘And you’ve worked together before on stories. Very good. Run along now, and Mr Dickins will talk to you later with more details.’
Dismissed, Basil went straight to find Bob Zennor, who looked rather the way Basil felt, as though he had been smacked on the head and wasn’t sure what had happened to him.
‘What’s this about your going to Spain?’ Basil demanded.
‘Have you volunteered? I hoped you would,’ said Zennor. ‘I must say, I’m relieved there’ll be two of us.’
‘But – but Miranda Byrne only suggested it last night, and I went straight in this morning to volunteer. How did you hear about it?’ Basil said, bewildered.
Zennor shook his head, as if shaking water out of his ears. ‘They’ve been planning it for days – the editor and Mr Dickins. They asked me yesterday morning if I’d go. Apparently, they think I’m the right man for the job because I was in OTC, and I’m not married or anything. And Miss Byrne—’
‘Miss Byrne?’
‘Well, she knew about it, because of the editor being her uncle. She hinted you might be the other bod. I can see why – you’re the adventurous type.
It’s much more in your line than mine. I don’t know, really, how I came to say yes, but she talked and talked and made it all sound so marvellous. Well, you know how she is.’