John Quinn isn’t watching the speaker beside him, only the audience, puzzled at first, but gradually warming to Klauer’s theme of brotherhood. The Frenchman quotes Robert Burns, hums Beethoven’s ‘Ode To Joy’, cracks a joke that raises a laugh. Men and women gaze with growing admiration, charmed by Klauer’s foreign manner, flattered by his praise of their country’s liberal traditions, stirred by vivid tales of struggle.
“So you see, my friends, if justice is on our side then it doesn’t matter how few we might be in number, because numbers can grow. We have heard how the forty-hour week will mean there will be enough work for everyone. We have heard that the employers, too, must sacrifice a modest portion of their profits to the common good. What does this small gesture count for, against the blood of our own loved ones, spilled in the trenches? Do we not owe it to them, and to the ones who survive? Are we like the speculators of Versailles, who knew the value of nothing except money? Or are we communards, patriots, workers united?”
Applause breaks out, there are shouts as people rise to their feet.
“Workers united!”
“We’ll show them!”
The plan was for questions and answers, instead there is confusion, a babble John Quinn is unable to suppress when he calls for order, and nor can the union man, who reminds everyone that the Trades Council has yet to pass a motion on the issue and action must not be taken until then. Pierre, smiling at what he has achieved, makes no effort to quieten the room where everyone has now risen; instead he goes down from the podium and joins the crowd, greeted by a few handshakes and backslaps and then by Jessie, her face illuminated with wonder, her remark to him inaudible, lost in the general mood of congratulation, so that he draws closer and asks her to say it in his ear, puts his arm round her while she tells him he was superb.
There is a loud banging from the chairman on stage, now armed with a gavel someone has rescued from a storeroom. John Quinn looks like the student he is, young and overwhelmed, yet it is his hand that holds the hammer, and the audience’s reaction is instinctively deferential. They begin returning to their seats.
Pierre says softly to Jessie, “Come outside with me.”
“What?”
“I need some air after the speech.”
Amid the general movement of people reminded of the decorum expected of them, Pierre pushes to the exit with Jessie following behind, and they emerge onto the dark street.
“It’s cold,” Jessie exclaims.
“Then have my overcoat.” He removes it before she can protest, and wraps it over her shoulders.
“You’re very gallant. And such a good speaker. Have you done much before?”
“Not really.”
“I can’t believe it, you were so confident. If I’d been in front of that many people I’d have fainted.”
“I know something about performance,” he says.
In the poor light she looks quizzically at him, but Pierre doesn’t elaborate, nor even notice her curiosity. It unsettles her. “We really oughtn’t stand here.”
“You’re still cold?”
“It might appear odd, the two of us.”
“Why odd?”
“As if we’re together.”
“Aren’t we?”
“That’s not what I mean.” She gives an embarrassed laugh, then adds seriously, “People might conclude we’re a couple.”
Pierre is unconcerned. “Does it matter what people conclude?”
“It would if they told my father. Not that he’d mind. But he’d want to know first.”
He takes her hands in his. “Your father has been so generous and welcoming, I almost feel as if you and John were my own brother and sister. I would never wish to do anything that might be misinterpreted.”
“I know.”
“If we were to walk together it would only be as friends, anyone can see that. So why don’t we? Better than standing here, surely.”
He adjusts the large and heavy coat that hangs around her shoulders, making sure she’s adequately protected, and they begin to stroll slowly as if it were an afternoon in summer, not a harsh January night. Jessie, previously so talkative, is made quieter by the new situation; instead it’s Pierre who leads the conversation in the same way that he guides his companion, with a gentle insistence pushing towards some unknown but predetermined goal.
“I don’t think those people really understood what I was talking about, but at least they learned something. Let’s go this way.”
“The river? It’s so dark.”
“But perfectly safe.”
“I might step in a puddle.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t.” He puts his arm round her waist. “Come, your eyes will soon adjust. Let’s imagine we’re in Paris and the air is warmer.”
She does as he says. They are in a place she knows from books and magazines, a place of dreams and romance, where it is permissible for her to lean against him until she can feel his breath on her hair. Soon they reach a bench and he suggests they sit; she expects the cold to seize her but is protected from it by his coat and his own body so close to hers, his arm around her as determined as a helmsman’s. The moon appears from behind a passing cloud and she sees the gently moving water glisten in front of them.
“Are you afraid?” he asks.
“Why should I be?”
“You were before.”
“I was only scared of getting wet. I know this path well enough in the daytime. That’s the memorial over there.” It’s like a shadowed finger against the indigo sky. “I played there with John when we were wee.”
“And now you’re grown.”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to kiss you.”
“No.” She’s said it so quickly, already she’s reconsidering. “It’s not right.”
“Have I offended you?”
“I like you very much, Pierre. But we don’t really know each other. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Do you mind my having my arm around you?”
“Just don’t squeeze.”
“Of course.”
“In Paris I suppose it’s different. Did you have a sweetheart there?”
“Yes.”
Her heart suddenly feels like stone. “Did you love her a great deal?”
“I wanted to marry her.”
Jessie edges away but feels his arm still restraining her, unwilling to let go.
“She was called Yvette,” he explains.
“Was she pretty?”
“Like a painting. I’ve no idea what happened to her. My life in France is over, I have a new one now.”
In Paris he adored a proud and fashionable beauty; here he is now with a plain little red-haired girl from a town no one has heard of, inviting her to join the story-book list of his conquests. She feels both elevated and crushed by Yvette’s spectre floating haughtily in her mind.
“Was it because of her you left?”
“You could say so. I wanted her to be my wife but knew my father would never approve.”
“You could have eloped.”