Free The Shadow of Treason by Edward Taylor Page A

me. Just routine, she said.’
    ‘That’s tricky.’
    ‘Well, I think I’d better go down and see them, don’t you? Rather than wait for them to come to London, looking for me?’
    ‘I suppose so.’ Adam spread margarine on another slice of toast. Jane was thoughtful. ‘Adam, something’s been niggling me.’
    ‘Oh dear. My snoring?’
    ‘No, seriously. Your parents in Canada. They’ll have been told you’re dead. They’ll be grieving.’
    ‘Yes, I hate that. But it’s not as bad as you think. My mum died when I was eight. I scarcely know my stepmother. Or my father, come to that. He was always travelling. I was at boarding school or staying with aunts.’
    ‘Have you got brothers or sisters?’
    ‘No, but Dad has a second family with Diana. They’re with him in Canada.’
    ‘Oh well, that’s a relief.’
    ‘I’ll give Dad a nice surprise after the war. If he remembers who I am. Listen, is there anything useful I can do while you’re down in Tilfleet?’
    ‘You lie low. Try and recall anything you can about those men on the pier, any details that might help us. If anything occurs to you, write it down.’
    ‘Right. Good idea.’
    ‘Maggie will be up about twelve. If she offers to show you her birthmark, don’t let her. Wait and see it on stage.’

    St James’s Park was bathed in gentle sunshine, as the two men walked beside the lake. Swans cruised serenely past, while ducks and geese competed for bits of bread, thrown from thebridge by a boy and his mother. Not all the bread reached them. Seagulls from the Thames had invaded the park and swooped to catch the titbits in mid-air. A group of flamingos remained aloof, standing in elegant postures, waiting to be admired. The war seemed a long way off.
    ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Hunter. ‘London at its best. I walk here after lunch every day. Unless it’s raining, of course.’
    Hunter was feeling mellow. There had been little sign of wartime austerity at his club. They’d enjoyed a good meal, with an unusual amount of reminiscing. The two men were in the habit of lunching together occasionally but the talk was usually of a general nature, mainly topics of the day, plus the latest rude jokes circulating in Whitehall.
    Today, though, they’d been remembering student years, prompted by Collis having recently run into a mutual friend from the old days. His report of that had led them back to Cambridge in the twenties, when they’d both been members of the Socialist Action Group. Today, over poached salmon with an agreeable wine, they’d recalled fiery debates in the Union, disruptive raids on Tory meetings, writing provocative pamphlets, and hurling eggs at a visiting Cabinet minister on the hustings. After university, they’d found themselves side by side on the picket lines in the General Strike. Then their paths had diverged, as Collis took his left-wing views noisily into politics, while Hunter took his quietly into the Civil Service.
    Today’s conversation had been stimulating and amusing, full of anecdotes, some remembered triumphs, and a few regrets. Of course, Collis had been probing his old friend’s current views, to see if he retained his Socialist zeal. At Cambridge, Hunter had been the firebrand, organizing street protests against capitalism , and trying to galvanize college staff into striking for more pay. Later, he’d even talked of going to fight in the Spanish Civil War. Only a recent promotion had prevented him from doing so. On second thoughts, he felt that he could do more to promote social justice working within the system.Throughout lunch, Collis had been pleased to find his companion’s militant idealism undiminished. Thus encouraged , the MP now made his first move, as the two men strolled beside the water.
    ‘Sad, isn’t it?’ he ventured. ‘All those years of struggle, all the writing and debating, all those cold hours on the picket lines, all the bruises, Jimmy Bent getting his arm broken by a