The Trinity Six - Charles Cumming [38]
‘Indeed. Every member of the Trinity cell, to a greater or lesser extent, had complicated, in some cases non-existent, relationships with their fathers. Guy’s died when he was very young, ditto Anthony’s. Maclean was the same. What would they call Sir Donald nowadays? “An absentee father”?’ Neame gave the phrase the same withering tone of dismissal that he had reserved for the word ‘subconsciously’. ‘Strict Presbyterian, too. More interested in furthering his political career than he was in looking out for the welfare of his own son. In my experience, men are all, to a greater or lesser extent, at war with their fathers. Would you agree, Doctor?’
Gaddis wasn’t one for sharing family confidences, so he proffered a joke instead.
‘You’re a Freudian after all, Tom.’
Neame did not react. It struck Gaddis that he was as covetous of his moods as a small child.
‘Tell me about Cambridge at that time,’ he asked, skidding over the awkwardness. ‘What were your impressions of the place?’
The question appeared to lift the old man’s spirits, because he turned to face him and smiled through his clear blue eyes.
‘Well, of course there has been a good deal of nonsense spoken about that period. If certain “experts” are to be believed, we spent our entire time at Cambridge eating cucumber sandwiches, punting along the Cam and singing “Jerusalem” in chapel. Believe me, times were a lot tougher than that. Of course, there were any number of highly privileged undergraduates from wealthy backgrounds in situ, but it wasn’t all Brideshead Revisited and picnics on the lawn.’
‘Of course.’ Gaddis was wondering why Neame felt the need to set the record straight.
‘But one thing is certainly true. Oxford and Cambridge in the pre-war years were both absolutely riddled with Communists. Any self-respecting young man – or woman, for that matter – with even the vaguest sense of social justice was profoundly sceptical about the direction Western capitalism was taking. This wasn’t too long after the Great Depression, don’t forget. Unemployment was running at three million. Throw into the mix the lovely Adolf and you had a climate of apprehension unmatched by anything since.’
‘Go on,’ said Gaddis. The lovely Adolf was a phrase he might steal for a lecture.
‘Well, it’s quite simple.’ Neame touched the perfect Windsor knot on his wool tie. There was a small stain on the fabric halfway down. ‘All of us became rather enamoured of the Russian experiment. Some more enamoured than others.’
‘You’re talking about Eddie?’
‘Eddie, certainly. But everyone in my circle of acquaintance was touched by an interest in Marx. To be a Communist in 1933 was as unremarkable as taking mustard with roast beef. We were everywhere. You couldn’t move for people who wanted to buck the system.’
‘People like Burgess and Maclean? People like Philby and Blunt?’
Neame shot him a sideways glance and Gaddis was concerned that he would now digress into yet more petty power games. Two tourists had appeared at the end of their row of seats wearing tracksuit trousers and bulging money belts, thousand-euro Nikons trained at the ceiling. They were speaking loudly to one another in German and Neame waited until they had moved along the aisle before continuing.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Guy and Anthony were particularly visible in the Party. Donald was a great protestor. Always manning the barricades, always first in the queue when there was an opportunity for dissent.’
‘But not Crane?’
Neame paused, seemingly concerned to render as accurate an account of his friend’s behaviour during this period as was possible at a distance of over seventy years.
‘Eddie was more subtle,’ he said finally. ‘Eddie kept his head down.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was known to Blunt, certainly, because he was a student in one of Anthony’s French classes, but he wasn’t active. He didn’t come into the orbit of Maurice Dobb, for example, who was the don responsible for pushing Guy in the direction of the Party. He never officially joined the Communists,