The Secret Knowledge

1919

It’s the evening of the meeting and the hall is full. On the platform, behind a long table, sit the committee whose nomenclature has, as Joe Baxter promised, gone unremarked, since the men and women crowding every available chair have more important concerns than spelling. John Quinn and Pierre Klauer sit side by side, Quinn rustling and reordering his scribbled notes while Klauer looks at the audience in front of him, the ranks of faces tired, determined, hopeful. He sees Jessie sitting near the front.

Quinn calls the meeting to order, his voice unsteady. He has never addressed a gathering as large as this, never seen so many hostile eyes. He quickly hands over to the regional head of one of the mining unions who outlines the case for reform, a man past fifty but still strong in appearance, his arguments clear, precise, and no different from what Quinn has been saying in print. Next is a representative of the Clyde Workers Committee who insists the campaign is not about undermining the existing order, only an attempt to create fairer working conditions and stave off the threat of mass unemployment. During the previous years there has been a working week of fifty-four hours or more, made necessary by warfare’s insatiable appetite, and some groups have profited from it: the manufacturers, landlords, speculators. But war has also raised the consciousness of the workers, not afraid to strike even when the government, under the false pretence of patriotism and national unity, made striking illegal. So we must again defend ourselves, the speaker says. We must look after our own folk.

Then Pierre Klauer gets to his feet. He has no script, no notes, and for a moment appears unsure what to say, though there is no trace of nervousness or reluctance in his manner, only a calm indifference to his surroundings, as if speaking to two or three people instead of as many hundred.

“I work at the Russell factory, like many of you. And you can tell that I am a Frenchman. So I cannot say much about the history of your country but instead will say something about my own. Half a century ago, the Prussians reached the outskirts of Paris and laid siege. The people ran out of meat and had to kill dogs and cats and horses. Zoo elephants were slaughtered and served to restaurant diners. The poor ate rats, until even the rats were gone. The government in Versailles capitulated, but not the people of Paris. Governments are often less patriotic than those they claim to represent. So while it suited Thiers and his cronies to make peace with German industrialists, the workers thought otherwise, and declared Paris a socialist republic, a commune that would fight on.

“The communards imprisoned various members of the ruling class; Thiers demanded their release. And the communards told him, we will free everyone if you in turn release, out of all the many political prisoners you hold, just one, the man we have chosen to be our president. Thiers said no. He signed a humiliating peace treaty with Prussia, and the commune was suppressed. Thousands of innocent men, women and children were slaughtered; shot or bayoneted as they tried to flee, lined against walls in summary executions until the streets of Paris were washed with proletarian blood.

“Who was the man Thiers feared so much that he would allow the deaths of all these people, and the hostages too, rather than free him to join the insurrection? His name was Louis-Auguste Blanqui. He had wielded a musket when Charles the Tenth was overthrown, was on the streets in 1848, and had suffered for it, kept in solitary confinement at Mont Saint-Michel in conditions that would have driven many men insane. At Belle Ile he grew so sick he was released in order to die — but instead this man with an iron constitution recovered and continued the struggle, until the grimy Fortress of Taureau became his final home.

“Blanqui was a small, wiry man, not at all handsome, prematurely aged by incarceration, white-haired by his forties, his face hollow, his clothes shabby. One day when he was in prison they told him his wife had died; he had barely seen her, or their son. He gave his life to the cause of revolution, renounced all human pleasure, all comfort, expected nothing except hardship. To someone like Thiers, feasting in Versailles with German bankers while the whole of Paris starved, this was incomprehensible. How can any man value justice more than money? How can anyone love freedom so much that he is prepared to spend three-quarters of his life in prison? You see, my friends, to the capitalist mentality, self-sacrifice is a mystery greater than the transubstantiation of the Host. A man who will not give a coin to a beggar will never understand someone willing to give his life for a stranger he calls comrade.”

John Quinn isn’t watching the speaker beside him, only the audience, puzzled at first, but gradually warming to Klauer’s theme of brotherhood. The Frenchman quotes Robert Burns, hums Beethoven’s ‘Ode To Joy’, cracks a joke that raises a laugh. Men and women gaze with growing admiration, charmed by Klauer’s foreign manner, flattered by his praise of their country’s liberal traditions, stirred by vivid tales of struggle.

“So you see, my friends, if justice is on our side then it doesn’t matter how few we might be in number, because numbers can grow. We have heard how the forty-hour week will mean there will be enough work for everyone. We have heard that the employers, too, must sacrifice a modest portion of their profits to the common good. What does this small gesture count for, against the blood of our own loved ones, spilled in the trenches? Do we not owe it to them, and to the ones who survive? Are we like the speculators of Versailles, who knew the value of nothing except money? Or are we communards, patriots, workers united?”

Applause breaks out, there are shouts as people rise to their feet.

“Workers united!”

“We’ll show them!”

The plan was for questions and answers, instead there is confusion, a babble John Quinn is unable to suppress when he calls for order, and nor can the union man, who reminds everyone that the Trades Council has yet to pass a motion on the issue and action must not be taken until then. Pierre, smiling at what he has achieved, makes no effort to quieten the room where everyone has now risen; instead he goes down from the podium and joins the crowd, greeted by a few handshakes and backslaps and then by Jessie, her face illuminated with wonder, her remark to him inaudible, lost in the general mood of congratulation, so that he draws closer and asks her to say it in his ear, puts his arm round her while she tells him he was superb.

There is a loud banging from the chairman on stage, now armed with a gavel someone has rescued from a storeroom. John Quinn looks like the student he is, young and overwhelmed, yet it is his hand that holds the hammer, and the audience’s reaction is instinctively deferential. They begin returning to their seats.

Pierre says softly to Jessie, “Come outside with me.”

“What?”

“I need some air after the speech.”

Amid the general movement of people reminded of the decorum expected of them, Pierre pushes to the exit with Jessie following behind, and they emerge onto the dark street.

“It’s cold,” Jessie exclaims.

“Then have my overcoat.” He removes it before she can protest, and wraps it over her shoulders.

“You’re very gallant. And such a good speaker. Have you done much before?”

“Not really.”

“I can’t believe it, you were so confident. If I’d been in front of that many people I’d have fainted.”

“I know something about performance,” he says.

In the poor light she looks quizzically at him, but Pierre doesn’t elaborate, nor even notice her curiosity. It unsettles her. “We really oughtn’t stand here.”

“You’re still cold?”

“It might appear odd, the two of us.”

“Why odd?”

“As if we’re together.”

“Aren’t we?”

“That’s not what I mean.” She gives an embarrassed laugh, then adds seriously, “People might conclude we’re a couple.”

Pierre is unconcerned. “Does it matter what people conclude?”

“It would if they told my father. Not that he’d mind. But he’d want to know first.”

He takes her hands in his. “Your father has been so generous and welcoming, I almost feel as if you and John were my own brother and sister. I would never wish to do anything that might be misinterpreted.”

“I know.”

“If we were to walk together it would only be as friends, anyone can see that. So why don’t we? Better than standing here, surely.”

He adjusts the large and heavy coat that hangs around her shoulders, making sure she’s adequately protected, and they begin to stroll slowly as if it were an afternoon in summer, not a harsh January night. Jessie, previously so talkative, is made quieter by the new situation; instead it’s Pierre who leads the conversation in the same way that he guides his companion, with a gentle insistence pushing towards some unknown but predetermined goal.

“I don’t think those people really understood what I was talking about, but at least they learned something. Let’s go this way.”

“The river? It’s so dark.”

“But perfectly safe.”

“I might step in a puddle.”

“I’ll make sure you don’t.” He puts his arm round her waist. “Come, your eyes will soon adjust. Let’s imagine we’re in Paris and the air is warmer.”

She does as he says. They are in a place she knows from books and magazines, a place of dreams and romance, where it is permissible for her to lean against him until she can feel his breath on her hair. Soon they reach a bench and he suggests they sit; she expects the cold to seize her but is protected from it by his coat and his own body so close to hers, his arm around her as determined as a helmsman’s. The moon appears from behind a passing cloud and she sees the gently moving water glisten in front of them.

“Are you afraid?” he asks.

“Why should I be?”

“You were before.”

“I was only scared of getting wet. I know this path well enough in the daytime. That’s the memorial over there.” It’s like a shadowed finger against the indigo sky. “I played there with John when we were wee.”

“And now you’re grown.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to kiss you.”

“No.” She’s said it so quickly, already she’s reconsidering. “It’s not right.”

“Have I offended you?”

“I like you very much, Pierre. But we don’t really know each other. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Do you mind my having my arm around you?”

“Just don’t squeeze.”

“Of course.”

“In Paris I suppose it’s different. Did you have a sweetheart there?”

“Yes.”

Her heart suddenly feels like stone. “Did you love her a great deal?”

“I wanted to marry her.”

Jessie edges away but feels his arm still restraining her, unwilling to let go.

“She was called Yvette,” he explains.

“Was she pretty?”

“Like a painting. I’ve no idea what happened to her. My life in France is over, I have a new one now.”

In Paris he adored a proud and fashionable beauty; here he is now with a plain little red-haired girl from a town no one has heard of, inviting her to join the story-book list of his conquests. She feels both elevated and crushed by Yvette’s spectre floating haughtily in her mind.

“Was it because of her you left?”

“You could say so. I wanted her to be my wife but knew my father would never approve.”

“You could have eloped.”

Pierre laughs. “Yes, we could have. To be with Yvette I was willing to give up everything. I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks but wrote and told her to meet me at a fair that was being held. I planned to propose to her as we rode together on the big wheel.”

“That’s so romantic.”

“We met and I saw her face again after what felt like such a long time… but something had changed. I had become a new person and so, I think, had she.”

“After only a few weeks of separation?”

“Much had happened. I’d begun to see that my life, in many ways, was empty and without purpose. I’d discovered a new mission, a goal, and I wanted Yvette to share it with me, but as soon as I saw her, I wondered if she was the right person.”

“What mission? A religious one? I haven’t noticed you in chapel…”

“I can’t explain it, Jessie. I wanted to tell Yvette but never had the chance. We went on the big wheel and were whirled up into the air, it was beautiful. I asked her to marry me. She said yes.”

“You must both have been so happy.” Jessie feels stiff within his grip.

“We came off and toured the fair, I was jubilant but at the same time doubtful, fearful. I had a great decision to make, a terrible choice. There was not one life that lay before me but many, a junction of possibilities, a test. There was something I had to do. I told Yvette to wait for me. It was only a small piece of business I had arranged with a friend, a task of a few minutes.”

“Could she not have come with you?”

“No, that was the test I put her to. A moment alone, then a lifetime together.”

“Did you tell her where you were going?”

“I said I’d explain afterwards. You see what a simple thing I asked of her, this woman who not long before had agreed to love me forever! Yet she refused.”

“It’s not polite to make a lady wait,” Jessie says.

“But this was about trust and faith. I gave her the key to my writing desk, something very precious and important to me, and insisted she stay holding it while I attended to my business.”

In Paris, thinks Jessie, everything is so different; the people are like costumed actors on a stage, yet more real than anything here in Kenzie. She can see the drama of the key, can almost feel its metal as though it were she who was made to wait. Yes, she thinks, if I truly loved a man then I would wait for him not minutes, but years, an eternity.

“So I left her standing there, I remember the place so well, near a tent where an acrobat was performing. I went, and after only a short time the task was finished.”

“What exactly was this business of yours?”

“I told you, Jessie, it was a test, nothing more.”

“You mean you only wanted Yvette to wait? What about the mission you mentioned?”

“This was my mission, right there in the park. A new world, transformed and radiant, made pure by love and faith. I prayed, Jessie. I went to a place near the boating pond and prayed. I asked myself, what is this life? What is the future? What is our place in the universe? And it was like an earthquake in my heart. Out of so many paths, I chose the one I knew must already have been chosen for me, there could be no other, I had only to take it and see what it was like. I hurried back, ran so fast that people stared, wondering if I was mad, I expect a few thought I must be chasing a thief or was being pursued by one. I reached the spot — and she was gone. I couldn’t believe it, I called out for her, and then to the gods who’d tricked me, I dropped to my knees and clawed the grass, searching for what I knew I must eventually find. And there it was, gleaming in the sunshine, the little key.”

He falls silent and Jessie feels the grave-like stillness of the moonlit night, the desolation of solitude. Her dull and dirty town is reborn, crystalline, hard yet fragile as the ice in her blood. “If you wish, you may kiss me now.”

His lips burn against hers. This was what Yvette refused to wait for, this new life of faith he discovered in himself, this animal breath and bitter tang of tobacco, this rub of stubble and rising excitement — his fingers searching for her.

“Stop.” She pulls away.

“Forgive me.”

“It’s not your fault, only we don’t do that here.” There is a void of cold air between them. She wants him to hold her hand but is unable to reach for his. “Did you ever see her again?”

“Her message was clear. I never wrote or contacted her. My old life was finished and I had to begin a new one. So I came to Britain, then the war started.”

“John told me you were interned. How sad you must have felt in prison, how desperately lonely. I imagine you thought of her every day.”

“I decided not to.”

“Was it really so easy?”

“No, but it was possible. I knew that whatever I did must be right, somehow. Even if it didn’t appear that way at the time. Jessie, I want to kiss you again, properly.”

“Not now.”

“You make me so glad I lost Yvette.”

She can’t tell if it’s blushes or tears she feels rushing to her face. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true. You’re a sweet and beautiful girl.” He reaches for her hand and she cradles his fingers on her lap.

“I would have waited.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“The way you told me about Yvette, and what you said at the meeting — you’re so honest and open. You truly believe in people, that’s what I feel. You believe in them because you believe in yourself. But you can get hurt that way, like with Yvette, aren’t you worried it might happen again? With the workers’ campaign, for instance. You could get into trouble for what you said.”

“I don’t care.”

“Even if you finished up back in gaol?”

“That can’t happen.”

“The man you mentioned in your speech, the rebel, he spent most of his life in prison. You surely don’t want that.”

“Blanqui never feared the consequences of adhering to his principles, I admire that.”

“He hardly saw his wife and son, how must it have been for them?”

“You’re right, it might have been kinder had he never married.” He looks back along the path as if expecting to see someone, but it remains quiet. “The meeting will soon be over.”

“We should return.”

“Or we could walk a little further. I could even take you home.”

“John will be wondering where we are. Let’s go as far as the monument, then turn back.”

They walk hand in hand, Jessie’s fingers immobile and stiffening. Soon they reach the granite obelisk that is like a polished tomb; Pierre tries to see its inscription in the weak light. “I’ve passed this before but I’ve never read what’s on it.”

Jessie knows and can decipher it for him. “On 31st December 1860, during severe flooding, James Deuchar, 20, a divinity student at Glasgow University, leapt into the river near this spot in an attempt to rescue George Laidlaw, 5, and Mary Laidlaw, 7, who had fallen in. Having saved the younger child, Mr Deuchar returned to search for the girl, who was washed up alive further downstream. Mr Deuchar, however, perished in his noble endeavour. This monument to his heroism was erected by public subscription, 3rd January 1863.”

“Nearly sixty years ago,” Pierre calculates.

“He could still have been alive, an old man now.”

“Better that he died doing good. Think of all those men buried beneath the battlefields without even a wooden cross to mark them. History has become a factory, its heroes no longer have names.”

“Would you like your name to go down in history, Pierre?”

“That’s a foolish ambition and if Deuchar had thought that way he would never have jumped in. He cared only about saving life, even if it meant losing his own. As I said in my speech, Jessie, it’s what capitalism can never explain nor comprehend. The industrialists made no sacrifice in the war, only profit, through making others sacrifice themselves.”

Jessie is shivering. “Let’s return.”

They walk with hands pushed inside their pockets. He tells her, “After the Paris Commune fell, when Blanqui had been in solitary confinement so long he could barely speak, he wrote a remarkable book. It says the same arrangements of atoms must come up again and again throughout space, in every possible variation. There must be a planet with another you, another me.”

“He was a romantic after all,” says Jessie.

“On one of them right now I’m making the speech in the meeting hall. On another I’m…”

“With Yvette?”

“I suppose. Every moment is an eternity in space. Blanqui says it in his book.”

“Prison drove him mad.”

“It made him see circumstances differently.”

“Like your earthquake in the park?”

“There are worlds where Deuchar drowned and others where he survived.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“But don’t you understand, Jessie? There’s a world where he goes back and saves another child, and another. He walks into burning houses, collapsing buildings, and escapes without a scratch. There’s a world where Deuchar knows himself to be immortal.”

He seizes and kisses her.

“Stop it, Pierre.”

“Don’t you feel the eternity of the stars?”

It fills her body, she longs to surrender to it, but not now. She breaks away and they continue in silence to the hall, arriving there as the crowd are preparing to leave. A new world has been born inside her.

She doesn’t see Pierre again until the weekend. It’s Saturday afternoon and she’s at the piano, hasn’t played for months, the instrument’s in need of tuning but she’s been gripped by a renewed urge to touch those yellowed keys whose vibrations are like a secret acknowledgment of her thoughts. Father is reading, she hears the occasional turning of a page behind her, and in her mind the words of the song she plays. You have loved lots of girls in the sweet long ago and each one has meant heaven to you. She doesn’t notice the knock at the front door; father tells her to go and see who it is. She finds Pierre waiting on the step, straight from the end of his shift, and feels herself redden. But he hasn’t come for her; it’s John he’s looking for, there’s urgency in his voice.

“Is something wrong? Come inside and tell me.”

“I expected to see him at the factory. The strike’s going ahead.”

“At Russell?”

“Everywhere. All of Glasgow will be out on Monday.” Pierre brings in cold air with him and removes his cap. “Scobie, the shop steward, told us this morning, says the union still won’t back it though everyone I’ve spoken to is willing to walk out. Where the blazes is that brother of yours?”

It’s as if none of it ever happened. She knows it has to be this way. “My father’s in there, go and say hello.”

Dr Quinn has heard Pierre’s raised voice though not his words. “Bonjour, Monsieur Klauer,” he says from his chair, pleasantly but with cool detachment, his professional bedside manner. “If you’re looking for John I don’t know where he is. You could always try again later.”

“Are you hungry?” Jessie asks from behind Pierre’s back.

He turns. “That’s very kind.”

“We’ve eaten already,” says her father. “I suppose Jessie could fetch you something.”

She goes to the kitchen, Pierre waits for an invitation to sit but none comes, so he perches on the piano stool, facing away from the instrument and towards Dr Quinn who looks at his book, unable to read, then eventually says, “I hear you made a fine speech the other night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“A forty-hour week. I wonder if I’ve ever done so few. You’re all finished for the day and I’m only starting, I’ll be making my rounds soon.”

“I’m sure everyone appreciates what you do.”

The doctor believes he detects some sarcasm. “You’re sure are you? I don’t think anyone appreciates the work I have to do. And this son of mine, ought to be studying but doesn’t know the meaning of work.” He looks penetratingly at Pierre, something on his mind he’s now prepared to raise. “I asked John if he knew you from prison. He said no.”

“I was at Stobs camp.”

“I know that, I checked with a policeman friend of mine.”

Pierre is acquainted with such frank suspicion, untroubled by it. “My name was my misfortune.”

The doctor appears almost sympathetic. “Must have been hard for you, locked up with Germans. Your enemy as much as ours.”

“They’d been living in this country for years.”

“What about bolshevists? Were there many of them in the camp?”

“Not really.”

Dr Quinn proceeds towards his chosen point with clinical precision. “My son’s no revolutionary, he’s an idealist. This newspaper of his is only a game.”

“You worry I’m a bad influence.”

“Yes, I do. Of course any man’s entitled to his opinions and I believe in free speech as much as you. But where can a man speak freely if not in his own home? So I tell you honestly, Pierre, while I respect the strength of your convictions, even feel a degree of sympathy for them, I fear the possible consequences. Just look at what happened in Russia, and now in Germany, uprisings all over the place, bringing nothing but sorrow. Maybe you want to become a martyr like that confounded Luxemburg woman, that’s your choice, but my son didn’t survive four years of war in order to get himself shot on a barricade.”

He stops when he sees Jessie enter. She’s fried some bacon, the smell comes with her. “Shall I bring it here?” she asks father, who shows no sign of anger in the wake of his outburst, able to retain objectivity even when contemplating tragedy. He calmly sends both of them to the kitchen so that he can read. Pierre sits down there and begins to eat, chewing thoughtfully while Jessie stands watching in silence. She heard none of the conversation but perceived its tension. Eventually she tells him, almost whispering, “I haven’t said anything about our walk.”

Pierre looks up at her, somehow puzzled that she should mention it. “Probably best,” he agrees.

She sits down too, lays her hand on the table, outstretched fingers not far from his resting elbow, and waits for him to say something more, though all he can do is cut crisp shreds of meat, transporting them mechanically to his mouth.

“Do you think I should tell father?”

“He wouldn’t approve.”

“Then what do we do?” It’s a great problem to which she has given much thought. Pierre asks her to pour him some tea. She says with hardly suppressed anguish, “Must we stop going together?”

“What do you prefer?”

“I don’t know.”

Pierre can’t see what’s so complicated; the world is about to be reborn and this girl worries over a triviality. “I think we should carry on in secret.”

“You do?”

“It’s not as if we’re doing anything wrong.”

“But we… you know.” Gripped by romantic horror she feels the magnetic force of his body just beyond her fingertips, remembers his kiss.

He smiles. “We can do it again. Nobody need know.”

“I’m not like that.”

From the other room her father calls; she goes to be told that if Pierre has been served she should carry on playing the piano as before, Dr Quinn finds it soothing, their guest will too. At the first chords, Pierre comes and stands in the doorway, watching with folded arms.

“Sit and listen,” the doctor instructs him.

It’s a music-hall song neither man recalls, but the words are in Jessie’s thoughts as she plays. I wonder who’s kissing her now, wonder who’s teaching her how. Wonder who’s looking into her eyes, breathing sighs, telling lies. A postcard that was on the sheet music when she lifted it has a soldier standing guard at the front while in the corner, like a floating angel, a beautiful woman clutches a rose to her bosom, waiting faithfully for her lover to return. Yvette must have looked like that, she thinks.

“Do you play an instrument?” Dr Quinn asks Klauer.

“None at all.”

“But you like music, you told me.”

“Only listening.”

“Jessie has a fine touch, such an expressive legato.”

“I’m no expert.”

She suddenly stops and turns. “I’ve had enough.”

“We were enjoying it,” her father says.

“My hands are tired. I want to go for a walk. Pierre, would you like to come with me?” Both men are surprised by the proposal. “You’re starting your rounds soon, father, it would be rude to leave Pierre waiting here on his own.”

Dr Quinn can see the logic; it’s a polite way of getting the Frenchman out of the house. “You two go for some air, then. But not far, your brother should be back soon and he’ll be needing fed.” He doesn’t see the glance that passes between the young pair as Jessie goes to fetch her coat and hat.

Outside it’s grey and damp but she’s glad to have him by her side, her French beau, almost wants him to put his arm round her, though instead he keeps a polite distance between them, saying nothing. She can tell he’s thinking about the strike, walking more swiftly than she’d prefer, almost as if wanting to get away from her. She can’t see the point of the dispute, nor understand how the men can possibly get what they want; it’s a battle over an impossible dream. Only when Pierre spoke at the meeting did she feel persuaded by the argument.

He pauses, turns. “There’s something I have to ask of you.” His hesitancy ominously magnifies the possibilities.

“Anything.”

“The union’s against us.”

“I know that.”

“They’ve declared there’s to be no strike pay.” His fingers play nervously together in fumbled prayer. “Already I’m behind with bills…”

“I can help you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Then what?”

“Your father; I’m sure he must have some cash around the house that he’d never miss.”

She’s shocked, horrified by the mere suggestion, yet brings it to its conclusion. “Yes.”

“I’d soon repay it.”

“I trust you.”

“If your father found out…”

“He won’t, he never looks.”

“The last thing I’d want would be to get you into trouble.”

He should take her in his arms right now, here in the street, she wouldn’t resist. He should kiss her in view of anyone who might pass. “Tell me how much you need.”

His expression changes. “How much could you get?”

Now they’re negotiating, they’ve crossed a boundary; Jessie, darkly thrilled by the moral calculus, considers her own wage when she was packing shells at Russell. “Would fifteen shillings do?” Pierre hesitates to answer; she says, “More?”

“I’m in arrears, even two or three pounds wouldn’t be enough, and if the strike continues…”

“I’ll find whatever I can.” The bargain is closed by a clasping together of their hands.

Pierre smiles. “One day, when times are better, I’ll be able to reward you properly.”

She repeats softly, “One day.” The future is feathered, comforting, just beyond reach; a marriage bed.

“Shall I walk you home again?”

“Father will have left, if we don’t go too quickly.”

“And then?”

Then anything: love, dreams, revolution, she wants the future right now. “I’ll give you the money.”

Their pace is as measured and deliberate as the ticking of a clock. He’s asking her to do something bold and courageous but his own risk is surely greater. There’ll be picketing, he tells her, the police will doubtless intervene and a few heads may be split.

“You have to be careful.” She never had a gallant soldier to pray for, not even her brother.

“I know how to take care of myself.”

Nearing the house, she tells him to wait while she goes ahead to check. If the place is empty she will draw a curtain as signal that he should come and knock. It’s like something from one of those French novels she’s secretly read; life transfigured by a higher honesty known only to the heart. God will forgive all this — as long as father never knows.

Pierre Klauer stands as instructed until at a window he sees the movement that equals her surrender. To visit a woman and be paid for it: that’s new. The door opens for him without anyone visible beyond; when she closes it he immediately goes to kiss her.

“No.”

“But we’re alone.”

“We have to be careful. John might be back any minute.”

Bolt the door and leave the fool standing outside, Klauer thinks; leave him waiting until they’re finished and getting dressed again. He takes her in his arms, his immortal arms, and tastes the sweetness of her lips.

She pulls away with some reluctance. “I’ll fetch that money.”

Still in his coat he goes to the sitting room, looks at the piano and the song sheet open on it, feels a deep urge to sit and make generous music, while from the kitchen comes the rattle of china, a lid being lifted and a jar replaced. His life is like the flicking of a false coin. She comes to the kitchen doorway and stands with the gift in her hands, a bouquet of crumpled notes.

“Four pounds,” she says.

“He stores so much for housekeeping?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” He goes to her, cups his hands round the warmth of hers.

“I saved this from when I was working.”

“You’ll have it all back soon.” He puts the crisp bundle into his pocket without looking at it, both of them ashamed by its presence. Then he holds her waist and she lets him kiss her more fully, she folds into him like a vine, he pecks at her ear and she gasps with surprise and uncertainty.

“I love you,” he says.

She knows what happens next in those French novels, but could she really do it, make herself into an Yvette? She wishes a great cannon were about to destroy everything, then she’d have the courage; only death can equal the magnitude of what she feels.

“John will be back.”

“I don’t care.”

“Father might have forgotten something.”

“If anyone calls we ignore it or escape through the back door.”

She laughs. “You’re a monster!”

“I’m in love with you, that’s all. When you’re in love nothing is forbidden, everything is allowed.” There’s solemnity in his voice.

“Everything?” she repeats.

“The whole world. The universe.” He releases her. “Look at this.” When he reaches into his coat she expects him to take out a little box with a ring inside, a fantasy replaced just as quickly by another, a photograph of the woman Jessie has supplanted, Yvette in Parisian finery. Yet neither emerges; what he instead produces is something it takes a moment for her to recognise and comprehend, black and terrible in his hand. He holds it by its muzzle, a small pistol.

“By the good Lord, why do you have such a thing?”

He displays it with boastful pride. “Just in case.”

“But it’s dangerous, unlawful. You have to be rid of it.”

“It’s harmless, there’s no bullet.” He puts it to the side of his head and pulls the trigger, she screams as the little weapon gives a click, hears her own scream reverberate, gasps and bursts into tears.

“Don’t cry, silly woman.”

His arms try to encircle her again, but at the end of one of them is the gun she feels pressing on her. “Why show me that horrible thing?” she sobs. “You’re not going to take it to the picket are you? Pierre, you’re frightening me.”

“Calm yourself.” He puts it back inside his coat and wipes her cheek with his finger. “There are no rules except whatever we make for ourselves. I love you, Jessie.” The words sound different now. “I want to know how much you love me.”

“Can’t you tell already?” A sound startles her, someone trying the front door. “It’s John.”

“Does he have a key?”

“He’s always forgetting it.”

Pierre grabs her waist again, one-handed, a gesture filled with bravado. “Let him find his key, then.”

She goes past him to answer the door, hurriedly drying her eyes. “We’ll say you just arrived.”

“It’s the truth.”

Klauer hears him enter, Jessie rapidly explaining to him the situation, but as soon as John comes into the sitting room there are other matters to discuss.

“So the strike’s definite?”

“I expect at least a hundred of us at the picket line, John. But we need more.”

“From the works?”

“Anywhere, it’s a general stoppage.” Pierre claps his friend’s shoulder as if trying to rouse him from sleep. “This is what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?”

John’s dazed expression is not because of the strike; he’s wondering exactly how long Pierre has been here, what the two of them have been saying about him. He sits to collect his thoughts.

“If it’s a hundred on the first day it’ll be everyone on the second,” Pierre tells him. “By the end of the week the whole country will be in the grip of the workers. This is the moment of revolution.”

A frown crosses John’s childlike face. “This is about jobs for heroes, not revolt.”

“Call it whatever you wish,” says Pierre. “It’s out of our hands now, you can’t stop history. You’re not scared, are you?”

John shoots him an angry look. “Of course not.”

Jessie goes to her brother. “If there’s any sign of trouble, John, you keep clear of it, do you hear me?”

“Oh, there’ll be trouble,” Pierre assures her.

“Then leave John out of this. He has nothing to do with Russell, why should he picket?”

Both of them are talking over his head, John says nothing, until finally Pierre stares down at him. “Your father’s right, this is only a game to you.”

“Go to hell.”

In an instant the scene erupts; Pierre has grasped the other man round the neck, locking him where he sits, Jessie screams but her voice becomes strangled by terror, the gun has been pulled out and is held against John’s head, he pants with fear. Jessie manages to speak through the pain she feels. “It’s not loaded, John, he doesn’t mean it, for the love of God, Pierre, stop this madness.”

Pierre’s eyes are like lead. “It’s loaded, Jessie.”

“Have mercy!” John pleads, and at last Pierre frees him, slumped and weeping in his sister’s arms. Looking proudly at them both, Pierre raises the gun to his own head and defiantly squeezes the trigger, creating nothing but a snap of metal, a brief interruption to the others’ anguished moans. Then without a word he leaves them both.

It is some hours later when there is a knock at the door; Jessie’s eyes are still red from crying and she takes a moment to arrange herself in front of the mirror before opening, expecting a request for the doctor who is nevertheless still out. Instead it’s a policeman and a large, grim-faced man she recognises, Mr Scobie from the Russell factory. They tell her they’ve come about Klauer.

“A friend of the family, I understand,” the constable says, coming inside.

“Not any more.”

The men exchange a glance; John comes to see what’s amiss.

“I knew from the outset he was no good,” says Scobie. “This latest only confirms it. He’s been passing himself off with forged papers.”

“What do you mean?” Jessie asks.

The policeman explains. “I’ve checked the records and can’t find a trace of him anywhere. The man’s an impostor, a fraud. Whoever the devil he is, you can be sure he’s not Pierre Klauer.”