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about the four children with dislike, as if they were a form of self-indulgence on the part of the ‘poor bastard’.

      ‘Now, now,’ said Bill, ‘I’m a clean-mouthed working lad, I don’t like sex talk like that.’

      ‘Oh go to hell,’ said Martha, finally losing her temper, and he laughed, gave her another solemn pantomimic wink and departed along the street.

      ‘You shouldn’t get upsides with Bill,’ said Murdoch, seriously. ‘He only tried to get a rise out of you.’

      Martha shrugged irritably; every contact with Bill left her feeling bludgeoned and sore. She capitulated at last by saying: ‘Well, I suppose for a worker from Britain we must seem pretty awful.’

      Murdoch said: ‘Worker, is it? He’s no more worker than you. He’s proper bourgeois, his father was a painter, a real painter, not what I’d call a painter, mind you.’

      ‘Then I’m getting tired of middle-class wolves in workers’ clothing.’

      To which Murdoch responded with indignation: ‘He’s a fine lad.’ He added, sentimental again already: ‘The lads in the camp think the world of him.’

      ‘Oh let’s get back to the exhibition,’ she said, too confused and angry to want to think about it. ‘Why does he take it out on me if he doesn’t like being middleclass?’

      ‘Keep your hair on, Matty,’ he said earnestly, following her. ‘Keep your hair on.’

      They were walking past the Indian store, where the assistant was locking the door for the night. He nodded at them and said shyly: ‘How’s the Red Army?’

      ‘Fine,’ said Martha, her irritation gone because of the reminder of what they all stood for.

      ‘I’ve collected seventeen shillings for your newspaper.’

      ‘Coming to the exhibition?’

      ‘You let us in?’

      ‘Of course,’ said Martha.

      ‘Of course,’ he said, ironical but friendly. ‘The first time in our fine city Indians can enter an exhibition like that, and you say, “Of course, of course.” ‘

      ‘We don’t believe in race prejudice.’

      He kept his ironical smile, nodded, and said: ‘So the Reds don’t believe in race prejudice, and so race prejudice is at an end in our city?’ He dropped his irony, and said simply, smiling: ‘You are good people, we know who are our friends.’ He got on to his bicycle and went off towards the railway lines.

      Martha and Murdoch walked along the bicycle-crammed street towards the centre of the town. Murdoch’s expression had changed and he was looking steadily sideways at Martha. Martha, responding, thought: If he does it too, then …

      ‘Let’s drop in for a beer at McGrath’s,’ he said sentimentally.

      ‘But we’re half an hour late.’

      ‘Being a Red’s as bad as the army,’ he said ruefully.

      ‘But we have to have discipline.’

      ‘Not even one wee drappie of beer? Well, you’re right. You’re right enough.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a fine thing,’ he said, ‘to see a girl like you giving up everything for the working-class.’

      ‘I don’t see that I’m giving up anything,’

      ‘I suppose you can take it that way. I admire you for it, and that’s a fact.’

      They were pushing their way along crowded pavements, separated at every moment by the press of people. Martha thought: I’ve delivered Watchdogs with him half a dozen times, and sat in the same room with him at meetings. We have nothing in common. Surely it isn’t possible …

      He said: ‘What do you say if we get married?’ Martha said: ‘But, Murdoch, we hardly know each other.’

      ‘You’re a fine comrade,’ he said sentimentally. ‘And you’re an attractive lass too.’ As she said nothing, frowning, he added, on his familiar weakly humorous note: ‘There’s no harm asking, is there?’

      ‘But, Murdoch, how can you go around getting married just like that?’

      ‘There’s not much time for courting in the Party.’ He said resentfully: ‘I can see a working-man’s life is not much to tempt you. Specially for you white girls out here – never had to lift a finger for yourselves in your lives. Believe me, you’d make a fine wife for a working-man!’

      ‘Then why ask me?’

      ‘Forget it,’ he said, and began to whistle. They walked on, hostile to each other.

      ‘No beer?’ he asked, as they passed McGrath’s.

      ‘But I would if we weren’t so late.’

      ‘Aye, I’ll bet you would. Waste five minutes of Party time – not you!’ He went off towards the office at Black Ally’s, saying: ‘I’ll change back into my jail-clothes. See you later.’

      They had rented a showroom on Main Street for the exhibition which was called: ‘Twenty-six years with the Red Army.’

      The large room was filled with light movable screens that had posters and photographs pinned all over them. At the table near the door, Jasmine sat with Tommy Brown. He had a book open in front of him, and she was looking over his shoulder.

      ‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Martha.

      ‘You are late,’ said Jasmine, formally, speaking as group secretary. Changing her tone, she said: ‘Hey, Matty, what’ve you done with Murdoch? You haven’t let him go, have you – he’ll get tight again.’

      ‘I can’t help it,’ said Martha, furious.

      ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Jasmine examined Martha calmly, nodded to Tommy to stay where he was, and followed Martha out to the pavement. ‘What’s eating you?’

      Martha said laughing, but in genuine despair: ‘Murdoch has just proposed to me.’

      ‘Well, he proposed to me last week. And he proposed to Marjorie the day before yesterday and went and got drunk when she said she was going to marry Colin.’

      ‘They’re all mad,’ said Martha. ‘That means that all the RAF members have proposed to us all in the last month.’

      ‘Oh well,’ said Jasmine.

      ‘It obviously doesn’t matter to them who they marry.’ Martha was laughing but she was filled with dismay and discouragement. She was relieved when Jasmine rolled up her eyes and said sedately, ‘It’s the spirit of the times.’ Jasmine always made such remarks as if they were being made for the first time. Martha felt: Well, it is the spirit of the times, and laughed, and Jasmine departed to a hall down-town, where she was helping to organize a public meeting.

      Tommy Brown was taking admittance money from a group of girls just out of their offices. They went to examine the posters and photographs of the Civil War that had the look of stills from an old film. Martha recognized the look on their faces, which was an idle, rather startled interest: it represented the feeling she had had herself, a year ago, when the ‘Russian Revolution’ was offered to her for the first time. She thought: But they’ll all be married inside a year, so what’s the point?

      She sat beside Tommy, who was waiting for her with one finger marking the place in his book. She said: ‘It would have been better if this exhibition had been about this war, about the Red Army in this war, instead of the Revolution as well.’

      His round eyes searched her face. His face had a look of strain. There was a pause while he thought over what she said. Five minutes with Tommy always made Martha feel frivolous, because of the depths of attention which he offered to all the older members of the group.

      ‘You

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