Hunger Town (50 page)

Marie determined to visit the headquarters of the Communist Party on her own. ‘I will be very discreet and not tip them off about Harry. But there may be communists in the Asturias who are safe to contact. These terrible events may have driven them into the arms of the anarchists. Perhaps even united them all. It's worth a shot.'

We parted and I took a taxi to the office of the
Daily Herald
.

‘Do not reveal too much, Judith,' Marie warned me. ‘When you don't know people well it is better not to trust them. Just say you are going to join Harry in Spain.'

But I had never been a convincing liar. The editor, a tall, spindly, middle-aged man with thinning hair and a long face, peered at me through his spectacles.

‘Mrs Grenville?' He was questioning, confused, surprised by my sudden appearance. ‘Mrs Judith Grenville?'

‘Yes.'

‘From Australia?'

‘Yes. I think you will know me as Judith Larsen.'

He leapt up, rushed around the table, and grasped my hand. ‘Judith Larsen? All the way from Australia? My brilliant cartoonist?'

I flushed, overwhelmed by the warmth of his welcome.

‘Sit down Mrs Grenville, Miss Larsen …' He floundered. ‘Sit down. Well, I never.'

He shouted for someone called Em and a plump middle-aged woman hurried in.

‘Em,' he said, ‘Em, this is Judith Larsen from Australia and she never told us she was coming.

‘Em is my secretary. Emily Cruikshank.'

Em smiled at me quietly and shook my hand with composure.

‘Tea, Em,' he said, ‘and cakes. That shop over the road. They have those nice little things.'

‘Strawberry tarts,' she said.

‘Yes,' he beamed. ‘Now, Mrs Grenville, tell me all. When did you arrive? How long are you staying? Have you any new work to show me?'

I hesitated, painfully uncertain. Marie's warning hung in the air between us. I felt that of necessity I was becoming suspicious of everyone, afraid of making some terrible mistake and endangering Harry, but this was England, not Spain. This man with his open generous manner would surely be no threat. I needed his friendship. I took a chance and plunged into my story.

He listened and his delight turned to concern. ‘The Asturias,' he said in an angry repressed tone. ‘So that is where those cartoons of yours came from.'

‘I didn't know then about my husband. Only later.'

‘No, of course not. And what do you want from me?'

The tea and strawberry tarts arrived. He poured me a cup, allowing me time to think, then he handed me the tarts. ‘These are very good. Try one.'

‘Have you any up-to-date news?' I asked.

He looked up and pursed his lips. ‘Not much. We don't have a reporter there and our sources are pretty much the same as the
Manchester Guardian
's. Spain is still a sideshow to an English audience.'

I drank my tea while he regarded me thoughtfully. ‘You know, Mrs Grenville, your cartoons are excellent.'

‘Thank you,' I said. Biding my time I knew what I wanted to ask and only needed to be bold. ‘Would it help me or us …' I started again. ‘I have a friend with me,' and at his enquiring look, ‘a woman friend. Would it help if I had a press pass?'

He didn't answer for a minute or so and I thought he was assessing me, probably amazed at my presumption. After all, I was not a journalist, and the
Daily Herald
had only published a few of my cartoons. Possibly his praise had been excessive, offered because I was an Australian visiting England, a flattering piece of courtesy.

At last he answered me. ‘Mrs Genville …'

‘Judith,' I suggested absently, all my attention concentrated on what he was about to say.

‘Judith, then. I would willingly offer you a press pass if I thought it would help you, but I think it may bring danger. Spain is volatile. Like all civil conflicts, brother is against brother, friend against friend. There are bitter divisions between left and right and within the left the factions fight each other like Kilkenny cats. A press pass would tell officials—and anyone else interested—that you plan to report on doings there. And many people have too much to conceal. It would not protect you and I doubt if it would open any doors to you. And dare I say, without insulting you, that you are inexperienced in these matters. Some journalists have spent years in Spain and learned the ropes. In these complex situations you must know how to play your cards. It would be much better if you and your friend went in as lady tourists. A couple of quiet innocent artists enjoying the beauties of Spain.'

He broke off and looked a little whimsical. ‘Of course, it would have been more convincing if you were enjoying summer or spring beauties, but the English are known to be eccentric, so you can be two eccentric ladies.'

He warmed to his theme, enlarging on the possibilities of deceiving the Spaniards. Then he stopped abruptly. ‘You must think me insensitive, Judith. It sounds almost as if I'm expecting you to have fun.'

I laughed in spite of myself. ‘No, of course not. It's very sound advice.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘How long are you here?'

‘Only a day or two. We must get on.'

He nodded. ‘I don't know what the phone service is like in Spain but I'll give you my home, not my office, telephone number. If you are ever in real trouble, please call me and I'll do my very best to get you some help.'

I thanked him and stood up.

‘Good luck. Safe travelling—and success, Judith. I hope you find your husband well.'

‘And alive,' I said abruptly.

‘I won't even think about that, and nor should you. It would be an unbearable burden to carry on your journey.'

I returned to the hotel cheered. It had been a relief to talk to a sympathetic listener and although I supposed that his phone number would not be much use to me it was comforting to tuck the piece of paper into my purse.

Marie arrived back at the hotel in a state of deep gloom. ‘I have failed, Judith,' she mourned. ‘Failed. And I could kick myself. I made a big mistake. I pretended to the comrades that I was French. Usually it works and opens doors but whether they saw through my deception or simply do not trust the French, they refused to talk with me. They appear to be very cautious, and extra apprehensive about people they don't know. Of course, I understand they are helping communists who are trying to escape Germany and this makes them more paranoid than usual. I suppose I could have been some sort of German spy. It would have been better if I had confessed honestly to being an Aussie from Down Under.'

She sighed dispiritedly. ‘But at all costs I wanted to avoid any connection with Nathan and any reference to Harry which they might use against him in Spain for turning to the anarchists. This labyrinth of suspicion is very disheartening, Judith.'

It was my turn to console her. On the following day we caught the ferry from Dover to Calais.

We left Dover in a misty rain. The famous white limestone cliffs rose pallidly out of the sea and slowly disappeared into a grey blur. The wind left a film of dampness on our coats and hats. The ferry lounges were a blue fuzz of cigarette smoke and smelled of stale beer.

It was still raining when we docked in the crowded harbour of Calais. Suddenly all the notices were in French: loud hailer announcements, port directions, customs queries. I produced my sketchbook and pens as evidence of my work and intentions. Marie did the same. At my English and few halting French phrases the customs officer frowned superciliously but at Marie's effortless French and melting eyes he beamed and waved us through.

We needed no porters because most of our heavy clothes were on our backs and our cases were light. The train station was a hubbub of noise, frantic with travellers all rushing about in a frenzied search for their seats on the Paris train.

Dragging our cases behind us we climbed two steep steps into our carriage and negotiated our way along the corridor to our compartment Two elderly men rose, doffed their hats, and helped us push our cases onto the overhead racks. Our seats faced the engine, one by the window. But there was not much to see. The rain was heavier. Lights gleamed in the wet surface of the platform, now roofed by dozens of umbrellas.

We pulled out slowly, the wheels grinding and grumbling, smoke from the engine mingling and clouding with the rain. I gazed at a flat grey wet countryside. So this was France. Despite my continued anxiety about Harry, a small part of me had anticipated feeling some excitement at actually stepping foot in Europe. England had seemed only a comfortable extension of Australia, a corroboration of things I already knew, but I had expected something different from France. What, I wasn't sure.

Beside me, Marie hummed happily under her breath, and occasionally tried to peer out the window. Piercing the gloom outside was impossible and she relaxed back into her seat with a sigh of regret. I felt her joy at returning to a place she had known and loved but to me it had neither the pleasure of recapturing something once known nor the exhilaration of experiencing something new and promising. It was simply wet and grey and flat. The train smelt old and dusty and the smell of sour urine from the toilet wafted along the corridor into our compartment.

I tried to sleep. Paris was some hours away. Maybe I was tired. Maybe it was impossible to sustain feelings not related to my fears about Harry. I dozed, stirring only when the train jolted to a stop at platforms with unfamiliar French names. There was the same anxious rush to find seats. It still rained. Marie slept beside me.

When we entered the outskirts of Paris Marie awoke and looked eagerly out the window searching the darkness for something familiar. Now as the train pulled in she was excited.

‘The Gare du Nord, Judith. Paris. I can hardly believe that I am back. Dear, shabby, glorious, dirty Paris. In all the world there is no city like it.' In a flood of French she spoke to the two middle-aged men with whom she had exchanged a few words during the journey. They smiled on her benignly and lifted our luggage down. Once again they doffed their hats and stood aside to let us precede them.

The corridor was packed with people jostling each other eager to leave. Why, I wondered, did travellers display such a sense of urgent importance? I had noticed it in South Australia, even on our local trains. Their actions said we must get on at once, or we must leave at once.

There were taxis outside the station. Marie negotiated our fare, gave instructions and bundled me inside. I was relieved she had not hired a car for Paris. The traffic was far worse than Diamond Corner at home at the Port. With Rafferty's rules, cars shot out from all directions, and cut in on each other to sweep around corners. People leapt into the traffic in foolhardy attempts to cross the huge squares, dodging vehicles as they ignored the cacophony of squealing horns.

For a confused moment I panicked as our taxi swung into the right lane. I clutched the seat.

‘It's all right, Judith. Don't fear. We are in France. It is all correct.'

And of course now I recalled that the French drove on the right-hand side of the road.

Awestruck by this commotion in which amazingly no one was killed, I asked anxiously, ‘How will you manage to drive, Marie?'

She patted my hand. ‘Courage my country mouse.'

I smiled at her ruefully. ‘You mean colonial country mouse.'

She grinned and with her beret pulled over her brow and her coat collar turned up about her gamin face she looked more French than Australian.

Our hotel was a skinny three-storey pension jammed in a row of similar grey-stone buildings. A creaking lift took us to the top floor. Our room had a washbasin, a small balcony overlooking the street, and two single beds. There was a tiny wardrobe and a small table. It was so cramped that we needed to squeeze ourselves around every piece of furniture. One of our cases sat on the table but I looked about helplessly searching for some place to put the other. Eventually I slung it on the bed.

Marie watched me with amusement. ‘Space here is not like space in Australia,
ma chere
.'

The noise of the city—a continuous drone, so like the roar of the sea at night—accompanied my sleep, but the clamour, clatter and clang of morning activities woke us early.

The hotel didn't provide breakfast so we dressed and walked down the street to a small cafe where we ate croissants and drank coffee. The rain had stopped but the slimy cobblestones gleamed treacherously and we had negotiated our way with slithering caution.

Over breakfast we discussed plans for the day. Marie said that she would try again, this time at the French communist headquarters. This time her French would not be a handicap but an advantage, for the French always warmed to those who spoke their language. ‘They must have met Nathan and Harry when they passed through France,' she said. ‘It would be unusual to find an Australian communist in France. Hopefully they will remember Harry as a communist and will have heard nothing more of them after they left here. I don't want to alert them to what has happened. I doubt if they'd be sympathetic. But maybe I can worm a little information out of them that might help us.'

‘I should come with you.' I was eager. ‘Perhaps they might recall Harry and speak to me of him. There would be some comfort in their recollections.'

She hesitated. I could see that her pity for me warred with her doubts.

‘Perhaps not, Judith. If you can bear it, I should go alone. It might be hard for you not to show your worries and our real intentions. The truth might emerge and, my dear, we can't even be sure that among the communists there are not fascist spies with links to Spain. In Australia I have laughed about the paranoia of the comrades but, believe me, in Europe these days there is reality in their fears. Here persecution ends in death or a concentration camp. For protection they have learned to squirrel information away. I do not want to betray us.'