'When you see the rich lady getting out of the limousine you throw it at her,' Ludger said.
'Why?' Jochen asked – reasonably enough, I thought – but before anyone could give him a cogent answer Hamid had picked him up and set him on his shoulders.
'Now you can have a good view,' he said.
I wondered if I should be playing the responsible mother but decided not to – it was never too early in your life to try to destroy the myth of the all-powerful system. What the hell, I thought: the counter-culture dies hard, and in any event it might be good for Jochen Gilmartin to throw an egg at a Persian princess, I reckoned. As Jochen surveyed the scene from Hamid's shoulders I turned to Ilse.
'You see that photographer in the denim jacket – on the wall with the others, the journalists?' I said.
'Yes. And so?'
'He's a policeman. He's looking for you.'
She turned away at once and fished in the pockets of her jacket for a hat – a pale blue bush hat with a floppy brim – that she pulled on low on her head, and added a pair of sun-glasses. She whispered something to Ludger and they slipped away into the crowd.
Suddenly the police started to call and gesture to each other. All traffic was stopped and a motorcade of cars led by two outriders with flashing lights came at some speed down Broad Street. The noise of the jeering and the shouting became shrill as the cars stopped and the bodyguards stepped out, shielding a small figure in a silk turquoise dress and short jacket. I saw dark, lacquered bouffant hair, big sun-glasses and, as she was ushered quickly towards the porters' lodge and the nervous dons in the welcome committee, the eggs began to fly. I thought that the sound of their cracking open as they hit was like distant gunshots.
'Throw, Jochen!' I shouted spontaneously – and saw him hurl his egg. Hamid let him stay up a second longer and then slid him down his front to the ground.
'I hit a man on the shoulder,' Jochen said, 'one of the men in sun-glasses.'
'Good boy,' I said. 'Now let's go home. That's enough excitement for the day.'
We said our goodbyes and walked away from the demonstration up Broad Street and on to the Banbury Road. After a minute or two we were joined, surprisingly, by Ludger and Ilse. Jochen began at once to explain to them that he had deliberately not aimed at the lady because her dress looked pretty – and expensive.
'Hey, Ruth,' Ludger said stepping in beside me, 'thanks for the warning about the pig.'
I saw Ilse had taken Jochen's hand; she was talking to him in German.
'I thought she was in more serious trouble,' I said. 'I think they just want to warn her.'
'No, no,' Ludger said, with a nervous laugh. He lowered his voice. 'Her head is a bit fucked-up. A bit crazy. Nothing heavy, you know.'
'Fine,' I said. 'Just like the rest of us, then.'
Jochen reached for Ludger's hand. 'Give me a swing, Ludger.'
So Ludger and Ilse between them began to swing Jochen off his feet as we walked homewards, Jochen laughing with uncontrolled pleasure, calling at every swing to be launched higher, higher.
I dropped back a little, bent down to adjust the strap on my shoe, and didn't spot the police car until it had pulled up alongside me. Through the open window Detective Constable Frobisher smiled at me.
'Miss Gilmartin – I thought it was you. Could I have a quick word?' He stepped out of the car, the driver remaining inside. I sensed Ludger, Ilse and Jochen continuing on their way regardless and managed not to look at them.
'I just wanted you to know,' Frobisher said. 'The German girl – seems she's back in London again.'
'Oh, right.'
'Did you see the demo?'
'Yes, I was in Broad Street. Some of my students were participating. Iranians, you know.'
'Yeah, that was what I was wanting to talk to you about,' he said, stepping away from the car. 'You move, I take it, among the foreign-student community.'
'I wouldn't say "move", exactly – but I do teach foreign students all year round, pretty much.' I flicked my hair back out of my eyes and used the gesture to glance up the road. Ludger, Ilse and Jochen were about a hundred yards off, standing still now, looking back at me, Ilse holding Jochen's hand.
'Let me put it this way, Miss Gilmartin,' Frobisher said, making his voice confidential, semi-urgent. 'We'd be very interested if you saw and heard anything unusual – political, like: anarchists, radicals. The Italians, the Germans, the Arabs… Anything that strikes you – just give us a call, let us know.' He smiled, genuinely, not politely, and I suddenly saw the real Frobisher for an instant, saw his serious zeal. Under the formulaic pleasantries and the air of earnest dullness, was someone shrewder, cleverer, more ambitious. 'You can get closer to these people than we can, you hear things we'd never hear,' he said, letting his guard drop again, 'and if you gave us a call from time to time – doesn't matter if it's just a hunch – we'd really appreciate it.'
Is this how it begins? I thought. Is this how your life as a spy begins?
'Sure,' I said. 'If I ever heard anything. But they're fairly innocuous and ordinary – all trying to learn English.'
'I know. Ninety-nine point nine per cent. But you've seen the graffiti,' he said. 'We're talking Italian far right, German far left. They must be here if they're writing that stuff on the walls.' It was true: Oxford was more and more spattered with meaningless Euro-agitprop slogans – Ordine Nuevo, das Volk wird dich rachen, Caca-pipi-talisme – meaningless to the English, that is.
'I understand,' I said. 'If I hear anything I'll give you a call. No problem: I've got your number.'
He thanked me again, said he'd be in touch, told me to 'take care', shook my hand and climbed back into his car, which did a swift U-turn and headed back down the road towards the city centre.
I rejoined the waiting trio.
'Why did that policeman want you, Mummy?'
'He said he was looking for a boy who threw an egg.' The adults all laughed but Jochen wasn't amused.
'You've used that joke before. It's still not funny.'
As we headed off, I drew Ilse back a pace or two.
'They think you're back in London, for some reason. So I suppose you're safe here.'
'Thank you for this, Ruth. I'm very grateful.'
'Why are you begging? They said you were begging aggressively – with threats.'
She sighed. 'Only at the beginning I was begging. Yeah. But not anymore.' She shrugged. 'On the streets there is much indifference, you know. It was making me angry.'
'What were you doing in London, anyway?'
'I left my home – in Dusseldorf. My best friend from school started to fuck my father. It was impossible, I had to leave.'
'Yes,' I said, 'yes, I can see how you might have had to… What're you going to do now?'
Ilse thought for a while, made a vague gesture with her hand. 'I think Ludger and I will find a flat in Oxford. We can squat, maybe. I like Oxford. Ludger says maybe we can do some porno.'
'In Oxford?'
'No, in Amsterdam. Ludger says he knows a guy who's making videos.'
I glanced at the skinny blonde girl walking along beside me as she rummaged in her bag for a cigarette – almost pretty, just something blunt and rounded about her features keeping her ordinary. An ordinary girl.
'I wouldn't do porno, Ilse,' I said. 'It's just to help sad men wank.'
'Yeah…' She thought a bit. 'You're right. I rather selling drugs.'
We caught up with Ludger and Jochen and wandered homewards, chatting about the demo and Jochen's bull's-eye with the egg, first throw. But I found I was thinking of Frobisher's offer, for some reason: anything you hear, even a hunch – we'd really appreciate it.
Ottawa , Canada . 1941