married me, and he provided for me and my children.’ Sitting on the couch next to Grigori, she took his hand. ‘I didn’t want him, and I certainly didn’t deserve him, but God gave him to me anyway.’
Grigori said: ‘I have dreaded this day. Ever since you were born I have dreaded it.’
Volodya said: ‘Then why did you keep the secret? Why didn’t you just speak the truth?’
Grigori was choked up, and spoke with difficulty. ‘I couldn’t bear to tell you that I wasn’t your father,’ he managed to say. ‘I loved you too much.’
Katerina said: ‘Let me tell you something, my beloved son. Listen to me, now, and I don’t care if you never listen to your mother again, but hear this. Forget the stranger in America who once seduced a foolish girl. Look at the man sitting in front of you with tears in his eyes.’
Volodya looked at Grigori and saw a pleading expression that tugged at his heart.
Katerina went on: ‘This man has fed you and clothed you and loved you unfailingly for three decades. If the word
‘Yes,’ Volodya said. ‘I know that.’
Lloyd Williams got on well with Ernie Bevin. They had a lot in common, despite the age difference. During the four-day train journey across snowy Europe Lloyd had confided that he, like Bevin, was the illegitimate son of a housemaid. They were both passionate anti-Communists: Lloyd because of his experiences in Spain, Bevin because he had seen Communist tactics in the trade union movement. ‘They’re slaves to the Kremlin and tyrants over everyone else,’ Bevin said, and Lloyd knew exactly what he meant.
Lloyd had not warmed to Greg Peshkov, who always looked as if he had dressed in a rush: shirtsleeves unbuttoned, coat collar twisted, shoelaces untied. Greg was shrewd, and Lloyd tried to like him, but he felt that underneath Greg’s casual charm there was a core of ruthlessness. Daisy had said that Lev Peshkov was a gangster, and Lloyd could imagine that Greg had the same instincts.
However, Bevin jumped at Greg’s idea for Germany. ‘Was he speaking for Marshall, do you suppose?’ said the portly Foreign Secretary in his broad West Country accent.
‘He said not,’ Lloyd replied. ‘Do you think it could work?’
‘I think it’s the best idea I’ve heard in three bloody weeks in bloody Moscow. If he’s serious, arrange an informal lunch, just Marshall and this youngster with you and me.’
‘I’ll do it right away.’
‘But tell nobody. We don’t want the Soviets to get a whisper of this. They’ll accuse us of conspiring against them, and they’ll be right.’
They met the following day at No. 10 Spasopeskovskaya Square, the American Ambassador’s residence, an extravagant neoclassical mansion built before the revolution. Marshall was tall and lean, every inch a soldier; Bevin rotund, nearsighted, a cigarette frequently dangling from his lips; but they clicked immediately. Both were plain-speaking men. Bevin had once been accused of ungentlemanly speech by Stalin himself, a distinction of which the Foreign Secretary was very proud. Beneath the painted ceilings and chandeliers they got down to the task of reviving Germany without the help of the USSR.
They agreed rapidly on the principles: the new currency, the unification of the British, American, and – if possible – French zones; the demilitarization of West Germany; elections; and a new transatlantic military alliance. Then Bevin said bluntly: ‘None of this will work, you know.’
Marshall was taken aback. ‘Then I fail to understand why we’re discussing it,’ he said sharply.
‘Europe’s in a slump. This scheme will fail if people are starving. The best protection against Communism is prosperity. Stalin knows that – which is why he wants to keep Germany impoverished.’
‘I agree.’
‘Which means we’ve got to rebuild. But we can’t do it with our bare hands. We need tractors, lathes, excavators, rolling stock – all of which we can’t afford.’
Marshall saw where he was going. ‘Americans aren’t willing to give Europeans any more handouts.’
‘Fair enough. But there must be a way the USA can lend us the money we need to buy equipment from you.’
There was a silence.
Marshall hated to waste words, but this was a long pause even by his standards.
Then at last he spoke. ‘It makes sense,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The conference lasted six weeks and, when they all went home again, nothing had been decided.
Eva Williams was a year old when she got her back teeth. The others had come fairly easily, but these hurt. There was not much Lloyd and Daisy could do for her. She was miserable, she could not sleep, she would not let them sleep, and they were miserable too.
Daisy had a lot of money, but they lived unostentatiously. They had bought a pleasant row house in Hoxton, where their neighbours were a shopkeeper and a builder. They got a small family car, a new Morris Eight with a top speed of almost sixty miles per hour. Daisy still bought pretty clothes, but Lloyd had just three suits: evening dress, a chalk stripe for the House of Commons, and tweeds for constituency work at the weekends.
