written into her engagement diary. And anyway, she had heard so often from Julian of his determination to see life in those northern towns and felt it might not be her cup of tea; she was bound to be a nuisance and get in the way. Far better that he borrowed May, the Blunts’ driver, who would not interrupt, knew her place and would let Julian concentrate on everything he wanted to find out about up in the North, whatever it was. As the suggestion that May should drive him there had actually come from Lottie, who saw no threat in a servant joining her sweetheart on such a trip, Julian felt quite guiltless when he agreed with Lottie that it was an inspired solution.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The trip up north had begun with a minor catastrophe for May. In her anxiety to make sure the car was properly packed, she had left her overnight case behind. Julian could not guess what was so wrong, as his intriguing young companion fell silent. An uneven flush, an unruly series of blotches, was spreading upwards from May’s collarbone. He had an awful feeling she was on the point of tears.
“Do you want to confess? Have you silently run over anything? Oh I am so sorry. Not funny. Sorry.”
May reddened even more.
“I have left my overnight bag behind.”
For a moment they were both silent.
And then Julian remembered he had two spare shirts. “You can have one of them. We will buy a toothbrush and some soap. And after all, it is only for a few nights.”
What an idiot she was, she had told him. But she had accepted his old shirt and reported the next morning that she had slept better than she had for many days.
The three young people chose to have their breakfast in a nearby café rather than at the grubby linoleum kitchen table in the boarding house with its bottle of Worcester sauce, piles of ancient crumbs, and unidentifiable slops of liquid on its greasy oilcloth. Over a cup of tea and a thick slice of bread, Peter said he was intending to accompany his friend Eric to Spain before the year was out. Despite the short span of their acquaintance, Peter’s passion for the cause made his invitation to Julian to join them sound persuasive. The Communist Party could do with all the help it could get against the right-wingers, Peter told him eagerly. If Julian thought the mining industry was in trouble over here he should also take a firsthand look at the working conditions in Spain. A major conflict over there was not only inevitable but also imminent. Peter wanted to be there to record it and Julian assured him he would think seriously about his proposition.
As they left the stifling heat of the brightly lit café, thanking Peter and wishing him well with his research and the writing of his paper, they adjusted their eyes to the darkness outside. Both were in a jaunty mood as, turning the corner, they were confronted with what looked like a giant orange gobstopper balanced on a tall black pole. Julian recognised the Belisha beacon at once. The transport minister, Mr. Hore-Belisha, was a parliamentary friend of Sir Philip’s and had stayed at Cuckmere the preceding summer just after the first beacon had gone up. He had joked to Julian that pedestrians had at last won their independence from the tyranny of cars.
“You are witnessing an historic landmark of the future,” Julian assured May in an exaggeratedly dramatic voice.
But May was looking bored.
“I thought you would be interested, what with you being a car buff,” he said in a tone of mock-hurt.
“Interested in lamps on sticks? You must be mad. Anyway, I’ve seen them before. They’re all over the place. You notice things like that when you drive a car, you know.”
She spoke in such a robust way that Julian burst out laughing at his pomposity. And then May laughed too. Together they walked through the streets, their carefree mood evaporating as they became conscious of the curiosity they invited in passers-by with their clean, neat clothes and their healthy, well-fed cheeks. At first the greyness and despair that Julian had anticipated seemed to be everywhere. Row upon row of identical buildings, built back to back, stretched out in front of them. Washing lines hung in the backyards, on which newly washed clothes were flapping, already grubby from air that tasted bitter with coal dust. Gutters were full of discarded crusts