Page 25 of The Last Kiss Goodbye

ecome life or death for anyone with a Jewish background.

Ros remembered listening to Samuel’s stories as a teenager. His recollections of her birthplace, Budapest. How settled and happy he and Valerie had been, until the growing power and sinister ambitions of neighbouring Nazi Germany became impossible to ignore. His crucial decision to leave Hungary with his wife and young child when the government starting passing anti-Jewish legislation.

‘Why did no one stop them?’ Rosamund had asked time and time again when she had learned how their relatives had been sent to Auschwitz and Treblinka, and the only way Samuel could respond was to say that perhaps nobody had realised what was happening until it was too late.

Rosamund lived in a state of perpetual concern that the same thing could happen again, and had made a vow to herself to always make her voice heard, to do whatever she could, in whatever small way, to help stop similar atrocities.

Samuel shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

‘I know how important politics is to you, darling. Your mother isn’t saying don’t do it. She is saying that spending almost two years working for nothing, with no prospect of ever getting paid, might not be the best use of your talents and qualifications, and I agree with her.’

‘Well what do you suggest?’ she asked, meeting his gaze with a direct challenge.

‘Become an MP. You’ll get a salary, a pension, the chance to make a difference.’

Ros snorted. ‘I don’t want to spend my whole life declaring the local gymnasium or post office open.’

‘What happened to “I want to be the first female prime minister”?’ said her father more softly.

‘I was ten years old.’

‘You were still serious.’

‘No major country in the world will have a female head of state. Not in my lifetime.’

‘Indira Gandhi is Congress President in India. I think you underestimate the potential of womankind.’

‘More like I understand the prejudices that exist in this country.’

‘How about journalism? That’s how many politicians got started.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like Churchill. Even if you never join a party, never try for selection as an MP, it’s a rewarding career. You were always such a nosy child,’ he smiled.

Ros couldn’t be cross with him any longer.

‘You know, you’re the second person this week to suggest I go into journalism.’

‘Who was the first?’

‘Just someone I met.’

‘Oh yes?’ smiled her father knowingly as she felt the base of her neck flush pink.

Dominic Blake. Since their protest outside the Capital offices three days earlier, the man had kept popping into her head unbidden. The good looks he was quite clearly aware of, his regular features, full lips and soft grey eyes, both irritated and fascinated her to the point that she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to exorcise all thoughts of him immediately or close her eyes and think of him again.

But it was more than the way he looked. Dominic Blake had surprised her, intrigued her, and his words had lifted her spirits, quite an achievement considering she had expected him to be a complete pig.

Write for me. You have talent. Change the way people think. I think you’d be good at this.

Although she was a confident woman, Rosamund wasn’t exactly sure what she was good at any more. At school and university, her talents and efforts, and their rewards, had been clear to see. Her clean sweep of A’s at A level, her first-class degree. The Direct Action Group tried hard, they gave it their all, but they hadn’t really changed anything except the odd light bulb in their office.

So it was nice to be told that she was good, that she was talented. To hear the words out loud and to know that Dominic Blake believed in her, regardless of his political views, made her smile at night.

‘Nothing like that,’ she said quickly, aware that her father was waiting for a response. ‘He’s an editor. He saw something I’d written and thought I had potential.’

‘Then listen to the man. He knows what he’s talking about.’