about the college. Ella wants to know if there are any good-looking boys on the course. They’re in Starbucks, a new branch only recently opened, Paige wonders what the place used to be, how long it will survive in this latest incarnation, thinking it while Ella talks about something else, her freshly dyed red hair making her pretty face look even paler than usual, energised with transitory importance. Paige gets a call on her phone, looks at the screen and doesn’t recognise the number, puts the phone to her ear and Ella falls silent.
“Paige, it’s David Conroy.”
At first she can’t connect the name with any person, she’s so surprised to be called by her tutor.
“There’s something we need to discuss. Could we meet?”
Her confusion must be visible to Ella, who can hear it’s a man at the other end.
“I have to ask you to return the score I gave you. I’ll explain when I see you. Things are stranger than I thought.”
1919
Scotland
John Quinn waits at the gate of Russell Engineering on a dark January evening as the workers emerge, caps pulled low, coats buttoned against the frigid air. “ Advance , one penny!” Quinn shouts, brandishing a bundle of printed pages in his upheld hand. “Support the campaign for a forty-hour week.” Most ignore him as they pass, too tired to comment. A few tell him to be off; their union, like most in Scotland, has already voted against – why should they heed this lad or his newspaper? But one man stops.
“I’ll buy a copy.” The accent is foreign.
“A penny.”
He searches his pocket. “ Merde . Only three farthings.”
“Have it for two.”
“You should come on Friday when we have our pay packets.” He takes the paper, pays his coins and reads the masthead. “ Advance . I like that. I’m a believer in progress.”
Quinn barely notices the last of the men trudging indolently behind the stranger, his features strikingly shadowed in the lamplight. “You’re French?”
“I was.”
“How do you come to be here?”
“Events occurred.” The newspaper consists of a single spread the Frenchman opens and quickly peruses. “You have written this?”
“There’s a group of us.”
“Communists?”
“Socialists.”
He nods pensively. “I should like to meet your group.”
Quinn is delighted. “You’re most welcome…”
“But I think your newspaper is very bad,” he says, dismissively folding it. “And you wasted your time trying to sell it here. You don’t mind my being blunt, do you?”
“Of course not,” Quinn says, humbled.
“In France we have had a little more experience of revolution. You could say that along with women and wine it is a national speciality.” The stranger laughs, nudges his new friend, and Quinn is bathed by the warmth of exotic lands. “My name is Pierre Klauer.” Their introductory handshake is like a pact.
“Come for tea,” Quinn says abruptly, almost surprising himself with his own hospitality.
“I should like that, whenever is convenient for you.”
“Come now. Unless you need be somewhere else.”
Pierre shrugs affably. “I have no prior engagement.”
The factory gate is quiet, the winter evening cold; there is no further cause for formality. “Let’s go then,” says Quinn. He’s parked his bike against a nearby wall; he pushes it while Pierre carries the satchel of unsold newspapers. Quinn asks how long the Frenchman has been in Scotland.
“I arrived before the war, unfortunately.”
“You’d have preferred to be with your own people?”
“I was imprisoned by yours. My father was born in Germany; the one thing I have from him is his surname.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“What was prison like for you?”
“It gave me time to think.”
Leaning on the handlebars of the bike he wheels, Quinn agrees earnestly. “Plenty of time, certainly.” They take the path beside the river, poorly lit and muddy in parts. “Where do you live?”
“At a lodging house
“Paige, it’s David Conroy.”
At first she can’t connect the name with any person, she’s so surprised to be called by her tutor.
“There’s something we need to discuss. Could we meet?”
Her confusion must be visible to Ella, who can hear it’s a man at the other end.
“I have to ask you to return the score I gave you. I’ll explain when I see you. Things are stranger than I thought.”
1919
Scotland
John Quinn waits at the gate of Russell Engineering on a dark January evening as the workers emerge, caps pulled low, coats buttoned against the frigid air. “ Advance , one penny!” Quinn shouts, brandishing a bundle of printed pages in his upheld hand. “Support the campaign for a forty-hour week.” Most ignore him as they pass, too tired to comment. A few tell him to be off; their union, like most in Scotland, has already voted against – why should they heed this lad or his newspaper? But one man stops.
“I’ll buy a copy.” The accent is foreign.
“A penny.”
He searches his pocket. “ Merde . Only three farthings.”
“Have it for two.”
“You should come on Friday when we have our pay packets.” He takes the paper, pays his coins and reads the masthead. “ Advance . I like that. I’m a believer in progress.”
Quinn barely notices the last of the men trudging indolently behind the stranger, his features strikingly shadowed in the lamplight. “You’re French?”
“I was.”
“How do you come to be here?”
“Events occurred.” The newspaper consists of a single spread the Frenchman opens and quickly peruses. “You have written this?”
“There’s a group of us.”
“Communists?”
“Socialists.”
He nods pensively. “I should like to meet your group.”
Quinn is delighted. “You’re most welcome…”
“But I think your newspaper is very bad,” he says, dismissively folding it. “And you wasted your time trying to sell it here. You don’t mind my being blunt, do you?”
“Of course not,” Quinn says, humbled.
“In France we have had a little more experience of revolution. You could say that along with women and wine it is a national speciality.” The stranger laughs, nudges his new friend, and Quinn is bathed by the warmth of exotic lands. “My name is Pierre Klauer.” Their introductory handshake is like a pact.
“Come for tea,” Quinn says abruptly, almost surprising himself with his own hospitality.
“I should like that, whenever is convenient for you.”
“Come now. Unless you need be somewhere else.”
Pierre shrugs affably. “I have no prior engagement.”
The factory gate is quiet, the winter evening cold; there is no further cause for formality. “Let’s go then,” says Quinn. He’s parked his bike against a nearby wall; he pushes it while Pierre carries the satchel of unsold newspapers. Quinn asks how long the Frenchman has been in Scotland.
“I arrived before the war, unfortunately.”
“You’d have preferred to be with your own people?”
“I was imprisoned by yours. My father was born in Germany; the one thing I have from him is his surname.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“What was prison like for you?”
“It gave me time to think.”
Leaning on the handlebars of the bike he wheels, Quinn agrees earnestly. “Plenty of time, certainly.” They take the path beside the river, poorly lit and muddy in parts. “Where do you live?”
“At a lodging house
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