Page 49 of The Gathering Storm

Even Charlie, whose energy and curiosity had always seemed boundless, began to look worn. The purpose of their visit had been to study labour-management methods – particularly the Stakhanovite scheme – but the reality did not match the glossy Soviet propaganda. The posters showed muscular men and rosy, pretty women performing their tasks with happy smiles, and the text said their output was increasing day by day, thanks to superior Soviet management techniques and the dedication of the loyal workers to the enlightened State that nurtured them.

James began to wonder why the Soviets had let them come, to see for themselves the dirty, dilapidated buildings, the old machinery, the cowed and silent workers; to learn that the Stakhanovite system, far from being an inspiration to free souls to work more efficiently for the sheer love of country, was just another repressive method of getting more work out of weary bodies for the same pay. And when a manager, ordered to do so by their guide, picked out an employee and commanded her – it was usually a her – to answer the visitors’ questions, his eyes would flit sideways to the government official inevitably standing at the guide’s shoulder, in terror that she might say the wrong thing.

‘I’m ready to go home,’ Charlie said. ‘There is no wonderful new efficient way to work here. It’s just propaganda.’

The following day, their guide did not turn up. Down in the foyer they spent a useless hour trying to get the hotel clerks to understand the problem, to telephone somebody and find out what had happened, and to get them another guide.

‘This is not good,’ Charlie said at last, in an undertone. ‘I’m worried.’

‘He has our passports,’ Fern said. She looked at Charlie with fear in her eyes.

James had turned back to the desk to try a fresh appeal, when the street door opened and a man in a quintessentially government suit came in, followed by four uniformed men – soldiers or armed policemen, he couldn’t be sure which.

‘You will come with us,’ the man in the suit said without preamble.

Fern moved instinctively closer to Charlie, and James edged to her other side. His scalp felt cold where his hair had risen. ‘What’s this about?’ he demanded, trying to sound tough.

‘You have to answer questions,’ the man said. He seemed to be struggling with the English, which was not reassuring. ‘Come, please.’

‘I am an American citizen,’ Charlie said. ‘So is my wife. My secretary is a British citizen. We are here at the invitation of the Soviet Government.’

The man’s face was as blank as a slab of concrete, which it slightly resembled. ‘You will come, please.’

Charlie turned back to the desk, and said urgently, ‘Telephone the American Embassy – do you understand me? Telephone the American Embassy and tell them what has happened here. Do it at once.’ The clerk looked frozen with fright.

Outside there were two black official cars waiting at the kerb with their engines running. Charlie and Fern were bundled into the back of one, James into the other. Bracketed by the armed men, he heard the doors slammed, and wondered if he would ever see home again.

Later in the weekend Basil managed to have a talk with Barbara, up in her bedroom, with Michael.

‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘I think it’s brave of you. I’d much rather live with Aunt Molly and Uncle Vivian than pig it in some horrid rooms, but I suppose it’s different for girls. The important thing is deciding on a suitable job. What sort of job do you want, Bozzy darling?’

‘I don’t want any job, but I have to have one.’

‘I’m sure Freddie could—’

‘In London,’ Basil interrupted hastily.

‘But you’d have to stick at it,’ Barbara said, as if concluding her sentence.

‘You’ve had three different jobs,’ Michael said sensibly. ‘Which one did you like best?’

‘You liked it when you were working for the Bugle, didn’t you?’ Barbara suggested.

‘It wasn’t bad,’ Basil said cautiously, ‘but I can’t go back there.’

‘There are other newspapers,’ said Michael. ‘What about the Clarion?’

‘That’s of the opposite political persuasion to the Bugle,’ Basil pointed out.

‘Why should you care? I can’t believe you have any political convictions.’

‘So that’s settled, then,’ Barbara said with satisfaction. ‘You’ll get yourself a job on the Clarion and work hard, and become a great reporter like – like—’ She couldn’t think of the name of any reporter. But then, she didn’t read the newspapers.

‘Don’t look at me,’ Michael said. ‘I like to read the paper when I have time, but I never look to see who’s written it.’

Basil could only laugh. ‘So you’re setting me up for a lifetime of satisfying obscurity, are you?’

‘There!’ Barbara said. ‘You’ve got such a good way with words, it will be just the right thing for you. Unless,’ she added doubtfully, ‘you’d rather write novels? It does run in the family, after all.’