Blood Red, Snow White (19 page)

I put my arms around her and held her.

“Love you,” I said.

“Love you, too,” she said back.

I forced a smile, and so did she, and then I went.

16

THE WORST HAPPENED.

The worst. And I knew I should never have left Russia.

*   *   *

Gardiner, my editor at the
Daily News
for so long, lost his job. I heard a rumor from a friend with connections that Lloyd George himself had been responsible. He disliked Gardiner’s opinions, and leaned on the Cadbury family who owned the paper. Whatever the reason, with Gardiner gone, I no longer had a job, either. With no job, I had no reason to be allowed passports, or visas to Russia.

With growing desperation, I spoke and wrote to anyone I could think of who might be able to help get Evgenia permission to leave Russia, but with no success.

Time turned, I saw summer come and go, and I was not a step closer to being with her.

And when I thought things were bad enough, they got worse.

News from the east started to arrive in England. The situation in Russia was bad. Bad for me, bad for Evgenia. The White armies, far from suffering the defeat Lenin had crowed about in March, had increased in strength, and were pushing hard against Trotsky’s Reds. With growing support they had started to win a few battles, and now were victorious on all sides.

Admiral Kolchak’s armies held Siberia, Yudenich was threatening Petrograd, and Denikin had defeated the Tenth Red Army in the south.

His goal now was Moscow.

The papers everywhere were full of the imminent fall of the Bolsheviks.

I ate little; I slept less.

If the Whites took Moscow, I knew what the result would be for Evgenia. There would be no mercy for the Bolsheviks, or those who had helped them. In the meeting with Peters I’d had in Moscow, he’d shown me photos of White Army atrocities; Red Army corpses with their noses cut off, or decapitated.

When the Whites caught Lenin and Trotsky, there would be no mercy at all.

And whatever she might be now, Evgenia had been Trotsky’s secretary.

For days that turned into weeks I struggled in vain, until finally I couldn’t stand it any longer.

If I couldn’t get Evgenia out of Russia, I would go in and find her, and nothing was going to stop me.

17

I HAD A PROBLEM;
I might have decided to go back to Russia, but I still had no way of getting there. The
Daily News
was a closed door; since Gardiner had been sacked the views of the paper had shifted from mine, but I needed a job badly, and I got one. I had a call one day from C. P. Scott, the editor of the
Manchester Guardian
. He’d read some of my pieces, and needed a new Russian correspondent. He offered me the job, and what swung it was probably the fact that his son, Ted, had been the closest thing to a best friend I’d ever had at school.

Now I had a reason to go, but I still needed official permission. Once upon a time I’d had contacts in the Foreign Office, but no longer. While I was away in Russia new faces had arrived, old friends had left. My options were limited, but I pestered everyone I could, and in the end Basil Thomson of Scotland Yard managed to sway things for me.

I went to see him the day I collected my papers. I was eager to go, September had come, and the cold weather would soon arrive in the Baltic, and in Russia, too.

“Just one condition,” Thomson said.

“Which is?” I said, trying not to be goaded.

“I’ve been told you can have your visa on the condition that you write nothing untoward for the
Guardian
.”

“Untoward?” I said. “What’s untoward?”

“Well,” he said, smiling slyly, “that’s for you to decide. I might tell you that there are some people who have only agreed to you going at all because they think you’ll be less of a nuisance in Russia than here. But as to what you report, you need to use your own judgment.”

“And if I make the wrong judgment?”

“Don’t,” he said. He wasn’t smiling and I got the message. Behave, or else.

*   *   *

Later that day I headed to King’s Cross. As the cab pulled in I was vaguely wondering what dramas might occur at the station. Another plainclothes man? Was I still being followed everywhere?

I had already paid the driver and was halfway across the station yard before I realized how quiet the place was. There were a handful of people drifting around aimlessly, a few porters and guards standing in clusters, chatting, but doing no work. And it was quiet—no trains. No trains at all.

I collared a guard.

“No coal, is there,” he said. “Nothing running today. Probably not tomorrow. Who knows how long it’ll last.”

I shook my head. I’d heard there was a coal strike on but somehow I hadn’t made the connection with trains. No coal, no trains.

“But I have to get to Newcastle,” I said, “urgently.”

“Urgently, is it?” the guard said. “That’s as may be, but there’s no coal. Is there.”

“So what am I going to do?” I complained, not really expecting an answer.

He scratched his head.

“Listen, chum, I’ve got a cuppa waiting. Now clear off to the docks. You might just catch the Newcastle steamer.”

“The steamer? Of course!” I cried. “What time does it leave?”

The guard looked as the station clock.

“Midday. Hope you find a fast cabbie.”

It was nearly quarter past eleven.

I ran from the station and threw myself into the first cab I could find.

“The docks! As fast as you can. Please.”

The cabbie laughed, I wasn’t sure what was so funny, but I didn’t care, because he set off at a good pace. As we went I tried to avoid the torture of looking at my watch every minute.

“I’ve got to catch the noon boat,” I explained. My driver seemed unmoved. I tried something that usually worked in Russia. “Double your speed and I’ll double my fare.”

That did seem to impress him, and he spurred the horse on so we were soon heading through the city and out to the docks.

“Do you know where the ticket office is?” I said.

The driver grunted.

“Never mind,” I said to myself. I looked at my watch again. We were almost there, but it was very nearly twelve. I threw some money at the driver and jumped from the cab, bag in one hand, typewriter in the other. The docks spread before me, the river beyond. I could see at least three boats, any of which might be mine.

Desperately I ran forward, and accosted a steward standing at the head of a line of passengers.

“Newcastle?” I shouted.

He looked startled and waved a hand at the nearest boat.

“Thanks,” I said, and ran off.

“But you can’t go aboard!” he called after me, “Oi! Come back. It’s leaving.”

He was right.

As I lurched down the quayside I saw the gangplank being stowed, and a widening gap forming between the boat and the shore.

“Oi!” the steward called again. “Come back!”

I ignored him, and without thinking, hurled my typewriter and bag across the gap onto the deck, scaring an old lady in the process. She was even more alarmed when I took a longer run up and threw myself after my bags, landing on the deck with a thump. I felt a sharp pain in my ankle, but tried to ignore what it would mean if I had done anything serious.

The gap between the boat and shore had widened further and looking at the water I felt light-headed.

The steward stood on the quay, shaking his head.

“Hey!” he said. “Have you got a ticket?”

I waved.

“Not yet, I’ll get one on board, all right?”

I knew it would have to be all right; they weren’t going to turn the boat around just for me. He shook his head, and watched me sail away.

“I have to get to Russia,” I called to him. Then I noticed the strange looks I was getting, and decided it was time to lie low until the boat got to Newcastle.

18

THE COASTAL STEAMER PULLED
in to the docks at Newcastle, but, as I thought my luck was improving, it seemed to run out again.

I made my way into the ticket office, and asked about the boat to Norway.

“Ay, lad,” said a boy about half my age behind the ticket desk, “there’s a boat for Bergen. But it’s not going anyway. Don’t you know there’s a coal strike on?”

I smiled and tried not to swear.

“Yes,” I said, “I was aware of that. I didn’t know it applied to Norwegian ships.”

“Ay, well, neither did he, till he got here.”

The boy nodded at a man discussing something furiously with two other men across the ticket hall. He was obviously the captain of the boat, short for a Norwegian, but blond enough to put it beyond much doubt.

I wandered over.

One of the other men turned to me.

“Who are you?” he said, rather aggressively.

“A passenger for Bergen,” I said, and turned to the captain. “God dag! Is there nothing to be done?”

Hearing the Norwegian, he smiled and spread his hands wide.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“The captain sailed with a half-full hold,” the other man said. “There’s no more than the scraps left, coal dust and rubbish in the ballast. There’s probably enough to make it back, but only probably. If he runs out before Bergen…”

The captain was clearly fretting.

“I really do need to get to Norway, as soon as possible,” I said.

“You think so?” he said. “I tell you I need to get there more than you. It is my wedding anniversary tomorrow. I promised my wife I would be there for once…”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“In that case,” I said, “I think we had better get going. Wives are not people you should upset…”

I pulled a face, and he laughed.

“Besides, if we run out of fuel you can burn my luggage. Fair enough?”

“Very well,” he said, making up his mind. He turned to the other men. “My boat will sail this evening.”

*   *   *

And it did. It was hard going. The coal dust burned badly, and soot billowed from the funnels, raking the decks in black clouds as the wind changed, but I didn’t care. I was on my way.

As the packet hauled its way across the North Sea, I tried to talk to the other passengers, the Norwegian and other Scandinavians going home, to see if they knew anything of the news from Russia. But no one seemed to know, or if they did, they didn’t want to talk.

I wrote to my mother on the boat, to post when I got ashore. The letter got a bit smudged with soot, but I kept writing.

I have no regrets in my mind. No doubts. I know I must go, I want to go, and if I do not, well, whatever happens it can’t be worse than my own guilt if I’d avoided making the journey. So that’s that.

I wondered what Evgenia was doing. I guessed she’d be working hard, as usual, but did she know about the advance of the White Army? It was most likely, I knew, that the Bolsheviks wouldn’t want to admit that they were in trouble, that Trotsky’s Red Army had been losing ground, or that Denikin was marching on Moscow. No, of course they wouldn’t be telling the people the bad news, but maybe Evgenia had inside information. I hoped she didn’t do anything rash; she was so impetuous sometimes. I tried to keep calm; she’d navigated her way through two Revolutions without my help, after all, and for the time being, Moscow was probably the safest place for her. But I didn’t know what she knew, for though I had tried to send her several telegrams, I’d heard nothing back from her. I shut my eyes and thought of her, of the evening of Lockhart’s party, of that night.

I could only pray she knew I was coming.

I folded the letter and looked for an envelope. I rummaged around the bottom of my case, remembering a small pack of paper and envelopes I usually kept with me when traveling. I hadn’t used it for weeks, and as I pulled out the first envelope, I saw something strange.

There was handwriting on it already. A child’s handwriting, just one word.

Daddy.

I opened it and inside was a photograph. It was me and Tabitha, and instantly I knew what it was. It was from the visit I’d made eighteen months before, when Tabitha was seven. There we were, on that walk we’d taken down the lane, hand in hand, just pretending to be dancing so the camera wouldn’t get confused …

I’d left before Ivy had had the chance to get that film developed, and I’d never seen the photo before. It was wonderful. Happy. Tabitha must have sneaked it into my stationery set on this last visit, knowing I would find it sooner or later.

I turned it over. There was writing on the back.

Look, Daddy! We’ll always be dancing. Lots of love, Tabitha.

I stared at the picture for a long time, and looked at our faces. She was right; in the photograph, we’ll always be dancing, always happy.

Then I realized there are actually three of us in it; for although Ivy had been behind the camera, the sun had been behind her. Her shadow leaned in toward us. It didn’t matter; it was the truth, all of it. The happiness, the dancing, the shadow. Me, Tabitha, Ivy. All part of our little bit of history, and for once, I felt at peace with it all. Carefully, so carefully, I slid the photograph back into the envelope and put it in my inside pocket.

I needed a talisman, and at that very moment, Tabitha had given one to me.

19

I CROSSED NORWAY BY TRAIN,
from Bergen, and then on to Sweden, where I found myself in Stockholm once again. Due to my previous embarrassment there I was only permitted a transit visa, but it was a day or so before I managed to get a boat to sail east across the Baltic to Reval, the fine and ancient capital of Estonia.

And there I was truly stuck.

Not only was Moscow a very long way away, but the opposing front lines of the White and Red Armies lay between me and Evgenia. Estonia had taken the White cause at the outbreak of Revolution; their armies lay locked in stalemate with the Bolshevik forces.

At a loss, I presented myself to the Minister for Foreign Affairs.

The Minister, with the charming name of Ants Piip, made me very welcome. I thought there was every chance he would tell me he had no time for personal affairs, but I explained where I wanted to go, and I explained why.