Winter of the World (Century Trilogy 2)

face.

‘What’s that, Len boy?’ said Billy.

‘We can go to Spain and fight.’

His father said: ‘Don’t talk daft, Lenny.’

‘Lots of people are talking about going, all over the world, even in America. They want to form volunteer units to fight alongside the regular army.’

Lloyd sat upright. ‘Do they?’ This was the first he had heard of it. ‘How do you know?’

‘I read about it in the Daily Herald.’

Lloyd was electrified. Volunteers going to Spain to fight the Fascists!

Tom Griffiths said to Lenny: ‘Well, you’re not going, and that’s that.’

Billy said: ‘Remember those boys who lied about their age to fight in the Great War? Thousands of them.’

‘And totally useless, most of them,’ Tom said. ‘I recall that kid who cried before the Somme. What was his name, Billy?’

‘Owen Bevin. He ran away, didn’t he?’

‘Aye – to a firing squad. The bastards shot him for desertion. Fifteen, he was, poor little tyke.’

Lenny said: ‘I’m sixteen.’

‘Aye,’ said his father. ‘Big difference, that.’

Granda said: ‘Lloyd here is going to miss the train to London in about ten minutes.’

Lloyd had been so struck by Lenny’s revelation that he had not kept an eye on the clock. He jumped up, kissed his grandmother, and picked up his small suitcase.

Lenny said: ‘I’ll walk with you to the station.’

Lloyd said his goodbyes and hurried down the hill. Lenny said nothing, seeming preoccupied. Lloyd was glad not to have to talk: his mind was in turmoil.

The train was in. Lloyd bought a third-class ticket to London. As he was about to board, Lenny said: ‘Tell me, now, Lloyd, how do you get a passport?’

‘You’re serious about going to Spain, aren’t you?’

‘Come on, man, don’t muck about, I want to know.’

The whistle blew. Lloyd climbed aboard, closed the door, and let down the window. ‘You go to the Post Office and ask for a form,’ he said.

Lenny said despondently: ‘If I went to the Aberowen post office and asked for a passport form, my mother would hear of it about thirty seconds later.’

‘Then go to Cardiff,’ said Lloyd; and the train pulled away.

He settled in his seat and took from his pocket a copy of Le Rouge et le Noir by Stendhal in French. He stared at the page without taking anything in. He could think of only one idea: going to Spain.

He knew he should be scared, but all he felt was excitement at the prospect of fighting – really fighting, not just holding meetings – against the kind of men who had set the dogs on Jorg. No doubt fear would come later. Before a boxing match he was not scared in the dressing room. But when he entered the ring and saw the man who wanted to beat him unconscious, looked at the muscular shoulders and the hard fists and the vicious face, then his mouth went dry and his heart pounded and he had to suppress the impulse to turn and run away.

Right now he was mainly worried about his parents. Bernie was so proud of having a stepson at Cambridge – he had told half the East End – and he would be devastated if Lloyd left before getting his degree. Ethel would be frightened that her son might be wounded or killed. They would both be terribly upset.

There were other issues. How would he get to Spain? What city would he go to? How would he pay the fare? But only one snag really gave him pause.

Daisy Peshkov.

He told himself not to be ridiculous. He had met her twice. She was not even very interested in him. That was smart of her, because they were ill-suited. She was a millionaire’s daughter and a shallow socialite who thought talking about politics was dull. She liked men such as Boy Fitzherbert: that alone proved she was wrong for Lloyd. Yet he could not get her out of his mind, and the thought of going to Spain and losing all chance of seeing her again filled him with sadness.

Mayfair two four three four.

He felt ashamed of his hesitation, especially when he recalled Lenny’s simple determination. Lloyd had been talking about fighting Fascism for years. Now there was a chance to do it. How could he not go?

He reached London’s Paddington Station, took the Tube to Aldgate, and walked to the row house in Nutley Street where he had been born. He let himself in with his own key. The place had not changed much since he was a child, but one innovation was the telephone on a little table next to the hat stand. It was the only phone in the street, and the neighbours treated it as public property. Beside the phone was a box in which they placed the money for their calls.

His mother was in the kitchen. She had her hat on, ready to go out to address a Labour Party meeting – what else? – but she put the kettle on and made him tea. ‘How are they all in Aberowen?’ she asked.