that silent struggle for male dominance and she fled back down the stairs to help Roxie with the tea tray.
“The real thing, lovey?” Roxie asked, looking up from the tiny cucumber sandwiches she was preparing.
Jane nodded, too nervous to speak. It is... it is... dear God, this simply cannot be happening ....
“Known him long?”
She shook her head.
“No matter,” said Roxie, fixing her with a sharp look. “Two years or two hours—when it’s right, it’s right.”
“I hope so,” said Jane, straining to hear what was going on in the library, “because I’m going to marry him.”
* * *
Upstairs, the two men stared at each other across the chessboard set up on the game table between their chairs. Nigel lit his pipe. Mac reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette.
“Have you known my niece long?”
“Not very.” He wasn’t about to undermine Jane. It was up to her to spring the unorthodox details on her uncle.
“Where did you meet?”
“At a gathering not too far from here.” True, if not forthcoming.
Nigel nodded. “She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she?”
“Extremely.”
“You realize you’re the first young man she’s ever brought round to meet her reprobate uncle.” He peered at Mac. “Although you’re not all that young, are you?”
“Thirty-five.” Mac peered back at Nigel. “How old are you?”
“Touché, Mr. Weaver,” said Nigel, lifting his pipe in salute. “If your Senator McCarthy were half as clever as you, your country would be in even more distress than it already is.”
“We’re in agreement on that, Mr. Townsend.”
“Nigel.”
Peaches, thought Mac, thinking about Roxie’s pet name for the older man. He withheld a smile. “Call me Mac.”
“I’m a Trotskyite.”
“Jane told me.” He had to hand it to the old guy. Janie’s uncle sure knew how to jump start a conversation.
“I hope your government doesn’t have spies peering in my windows.”
“We’re safe. I’m not that big a fish.”
“If news reports are accurate, even minnows are unsafe.”
“I’m surprised you’re this interested in our domestic problems.”
“It distresses me to see a great country embark on such a destructive course.”
Mac didn’t have to ask for clarification. These days when the conversation turned to America, the first name on everyone’s lips was Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin. Tail Gunner Joe, he called himself, the last bastion of defense against the rampant onslaught of communism in America. While there was no denying the very real danger of communism, it was hard for most thinking individuals to perceive that danger to be hidden in every schoolbook, newspaper and innocuous television comedy show. Joe McCarthy was out to save democracy from the Red Peril and it didn’t take a genius to see he didn’t mind profiting from the misfortunes of those who were cut down by innuendo and lies.
“It would seem your First Amendment rights don’t hold up under scrutiny,” said Nigel. “You give lip service to free speech but show bloody little interest in granting that right to anyone who disagrees with the powers that be.”
It wasn’t hard to see where Jane got her feistiness. “A rhetorical statement?” Mac countered.
“No. I’m quite curious about the dichotomy between Senator McCarthy’s witch-hunt and your Constitution’s affection for freedom of speech.”
“So am I. I’ll find out when I get home.” There was an ocean between him and the McCarthy witch-hunt. It was hard to imagine the country he knew and loved looking over its collective shoulder at the shadow of one of its own.
“Your stay in England is at an end?”
Mac nodded. “Afraid so. I sail for New York tomorrow.”
“This is why you’re here.”
“We’re here for your typewriter.”
“You’re here for my niece.”
Mac leaned forward in his chair. “How the hell did you know?”
“You’ve met my Roxie?”
Mac nodded.
“Three days from first meeting
“The real thing, lovey?” Roxie asked, looking up from the tiny cucumber sandwiches she was preparing.
Jane nodded, too nervous to speak. It is... it is... dear God, this simply cannot be happening ....
“Known him long?”
She shook her head.
“No matter,” said Roxie, fixing her with a sharp look. “Two years or two hours—when it’s right, it’s right.”
“I hope so,” said Jane, straining to hear what was going on in the library, “because I’m going to marry him.”
* * *
Upstairs, the two men stared at each other across the chessboard set up on the game table between their chairs. Nigel lit his pipe. Mac reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette.
“Have you known my niece long?”
“Not very.” He wasn’t about to undermine Jane. It was up to her to spring the unorthodox details on her uncle.
“Where did you meet?”
“At a gathering not too far from here.” True, if not forthcoming.
Nigel nodded. “She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she?”
“Extremely.”
“You realize you’re the first young man she’s ever brought round to meet her reprobate uncle.” He peered at Mac. “Although you’re not all that young, are you?”
“Thirty-five.” Mac peered back at Nigel. “How old are you?”
“Touché, Mr. Weaver,” said Nigel, lifting his pipe in salute. “If your Senator McCarthy were half as clever as you, your country would be in even more distress than it already is.”
“We’re in agreement on that, Mr. Townsend.”
“Nigel.”
Peaches, thought Mac, thinking about Roxie’s pet name for the older man. He withheld a smile. “Call me Mac.”
“I’m a Trotskyite.”
“Jane told me.” He had to hand it to the old guy. Janie’s uncle sure knew how to jump start a conversation.
“I hope your government doesn’t have spies peering in my windows.”
“We’re safe. I’m not that big a fish.”
“If news reports are accurate, even minnows are unsafe.”
“I’m surprised you’re this interested in our domestic problems.”
“It distresses me to see a great country embark on such a destructive course.”
Mac didn’t have to ask for clarification. These days when the conversation turned to America, the first name on everyone’s lips was Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin. Tail Gunner Joe, he called himself, the last bastion of defense against the rampant onslaught of communism in America. While there was no denying the very real danger of communism, it was hard for most thinking individuals to perceive that danger to be hidden in every schoolbook, newspaper and innocuous television comedy show. Joe McCarthy was out to save democracy from the Red Peril and it didn’t take a genius to see he didn’t mind profiting from the misfortunes of those who were cut down by innuendo and lies.
“It would seem your First Amendment rights don’t hold up under scrutiny,” said Nigel. “You give lip service to free speech but show bloody little interest in granting that right to anyone who disagrees with the powers that be.”
It wasn’t hard to see where Jane got her feistiness. “A rhetorical statement?” Mac countered.
“No. I’m quite curious about the dichotomy between Senator McCarthy’s witch-hunt and your Constitution’s affection for freedom of speech.”
“So am I. I’ll find out when I get home.” There was an ocean between him and the McCarthy witch-hunt. It was hard to imagine the country he knew and loved looking over its collective shoulder at the shadow of one of its own.
“Your stay in England is at an end?”
Mac nodded. “Afraid so. I sail for New York tomorrow.”
“This is why you’re here.”
“We’re here for your typewriter.”
“You’re here for my niece.”
Mac leaned forward in his chair. “How the hell did you know?”
“You’ve met my Roxie?”
Mac nodded.
“Three days from first meeting
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