The Spy Who Came in from the Cold

Liz looked at the letter from Party Centre and wondered what it was about. She found it a little puzzling. She had to admit she was pleased, but why hadn’t they consulted her first? Had the District Committee put up her name, or was it Centre’s own choice? But no one in Centre knew her, so far as she was aware. She’d met odd speakers of course, and at District Congress she’d shaken hands with the Party Organiser. Perhaps that man from Cultural Relations had remembered her – that fair, rather effeminate man who was so ingratiating. Ashe, that was his name. He’d taken a bit of an interest in her and she supposed he might have handed her name on, or remembered her when the scholarship came up. An odd man, he was; took her to the Black and White for coffee after the meeting and asked her about her boyfriends. He hadn’t been amorous or anything – she’d thought he was a bit queer to be honest – but he asked her masses of questions about herself. How long had she been in the Party, did she get homesick living away from her parents? Had she lots of boyfriends or was there a special one she carried a torch for? She hadn’t cared for him much but his talk had gone down quite well – the worker-state in the German Democratic Republic, the concept of the worker-poet and all that stuff. He certainly knew all about Eastern Europe; he must have travelled a lot. She’d guessed he was a schoolmaster, he had that rather didactic, fluent way with him. They’d had a collection for the Fighting Fund afterwards, and Ashe had put a pound in; she’d been absolutely amazed. That was it, she was sure now: it was Ashe who’d remembered her. He’d told someone at London District, and District had told Centre or something like that. It still seemed a funny way to go about things, but then the Party always was secretive – it was part of being a revolutionary party, she supposed. It didn’t appeal to Liz much, the secrecy, it seemed dishonest. But she supposed it was necessary, and Heaven knows, there were plenty who got a kick out of it.

She read the letter again. It was on Centre’s writing paper, with the thick red print at the top, and it began ‘Dear Comrade’; it sounded so military to Liz, and she hated that; she’d never quite got used to ‘Comrade’.