Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow by Paul Gallico Page A

Liz! Communication! He regarded Mrs Harris still in confusion. Of course, it was out of the question. With a shaking hand he took out a cork-tipped cigarette from a box on his desk, put it in his mouth and lit the wrong end. Impossible!
    The astute cockney mind of Ada Harris read him like a book; every change in complexion, every shade, every shake and every quiver. She knew exactly what he was thinking which, of course, was the same as she herself had in her mind.
    Once more speaking aloud Mr Lockwood said, ‘Would you repeat that, Mrs Harris. Did I hear you say Moscow?’
    â€˜Package Tour 6A,’ replied Mrs Harris. ‘I’ll bringyou the brochures if you’d like to see. A proper lark. I bought me a chance to try to win me a colour telly set and instead …’ She stopped because apparently something in her remarks had set off Mr Lockwood into a series of new gyrations. He seized his cigarette by the burning end to take it from his mouth, swore, dropped it on the floor, stamped on it, shook his singed finger and now from paper-pale turned as bright red as his pen and then suddenly put his head in his hands. Mrs Harris, therefore, saw no further reason not to come right out with it; not the whole of the fantasy, of course, but the part that anybody would consider reasonable. She said, ‘Why couldn’t I try to get in touch with your young lady for you?’ staring hard at the photograph. ‘Maybe give ’er a letter or a message?’
    From the depths of the emotions that were gripping him Mr Lockwood, removing his hands from his fevered brow, groaned, ‘Oh, Mrs Harris, could you? Would you? Oh, my God, a letter. Something for her, for us both to hold on to. Communication. A thread.’
    But immediately the reaction set in and dully he said, ‘But of course, it’s utterly impossible. You’re very kind to offer it, Mrs Harris, but I wouldn’t dream of it.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜It’s too dangerous.’
    â€˜Dangerous?’ scoffed Mrs Harris. ‘Come on, MrLockwood, what’s dangerous? They couldn’t ’ave been nicer to us at that Intourist office. Everything fixed up for the ’ole of the trip and tickety-boo. I arranges to meet the young lady and slips ’er the letter. ’Oo’s to know?’
    Mr Lockwood now had more of a grip upon himself and said, ‘Mrs Harris, the Russians are the most suspicious people on the face of the earth. They are constantly looking for spies, not only under the bed, but in, on top and over and everywhere else. Nothing sets them off like a foreigner trying to contact a Russian national. You’ll …’ He had been about to say that she would be under constant surveillance from the moment she entered Russia until she left but thought it stupid to put the wind up her and perhaps spoil her trip since the particular kind to which tourists were exposed was merely routine, unobtrusive and harmless.
    Besides which the image of the letter he would write to Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya had formed in his mind, flaming words were already curling up from the pages. Lisabeta, Liz, Liz, Liz, and his eyes, too, wandered to the photograph of the beautiful girl. He said, ‘If they were to find the letter on you, you would be in great trouble and she too.’
    The more he talked the happier and more determined Mrs Harris became. Actually the delivery of a missive had played not too important a part in her thoughts. It was rather the fantasy, the great designof exporting Liz, which was so exciting her. But now Mr Lockwood was even adding a fillip of menace to this simple enough transaction, one incidentally in which she did not believe for a moment. She laid her mop aside, moved closer to the desk and said, ‘Come on now, Mr Lockwood, ’oo’s going to be looking for anything on the likes of me, an old biddy with ’er pal going around with a bunch of tourists admiring