Walking with Ghosts

of the century (far too late for you), is still barely thinkable in 1980. You are a victim of history. You nudged too far ahead of your time, on to the spearhead ledge where saints and martyrs stand. The ledge where all personal magic is anachronistic; where the only possible redemption is grace.
    You dared to think that Philip was grace, and that Philip’s world might hold a nook for you. You had courage, Dora, in those days. Or was it something else? Bravado? Madness?
    The doorbell rings. You are reading a first-year essay, poised above it with your red pen. It is an essay you have read a million times before, penned by different hands; it has no originality, no resonance, no life. It is Wednesday evening, the last time you looked at your watch it was after ten. You glance at it again. It is still after ten.
    You open the door to a slim young man. Very young. You guess he is not much more than twenty. He is dark with quick, penetrating eyes. When he speaks you catch the rough edge in his voice, intimations of Arthur and an origin in the working class.
    ‘Are you Dora?’ he asks. ‘My name’s Philip. Smiley sent me.’
    ‘Smiley? Is something wrong?’
    ‘No. He gave me your name and address. I’m starting a campaign to free Rachel Lloyd. Smiley thought you might be interested in helping.’
    You know about Rachel Lloyd, Dora. She has been arrested in Argentina. What does he mean, a campaign? Why should Smiley give your name to him?
    Philip shivers on the doorstep. ‘Is it too late to come in?’ he asks.
    You show him into the kitchen, offering coffee, still not sure if you want to be involved in this scheme.
    ‘Milk,’ he says.
    ‘Milk?’
    ‘Yeah, just a glass of cold milk. If that’s all right?’
    You go to the refrigerator, asking him how he thinks you can help. When you turn back he has seated himself at the table and is unbuttoning his coat. He looks even younger in the artificial light. Perhaps he is not yet twenty. His eyes flash around the room.
    He places a sheaf of papers on the table. ‘I’ve got together as many facts as I can,’ he says. ‘There’s something about her history in there, previous research, et cetera. It’s obvious they’ve got her on a trumped-up charge. They must need a scapegoat.’ He pauses to drink milk from his glass, leaving a white film on his upper lip. ‘Christ, that’s really good.
    Smiley wants to help, but he’s tied up at the moment. We thought you could handle the university end of things. I’m working on the trade unions and trying to push it through my Labour Party branch, but it would be good if the university was involved.’
    ‘Do you have a petition?’
    ‘Yeah.’ He points to the sheaf of papers. ‘It’s all in there. We need to get some bread together to start a campaign fund. Smiley thought you could help with that.’
    ‘Money?’
    He nods his head. ‘Bread, yeah. If you want to help you could have a party or something. Charge admission. The petition form has a section for donations to the campaign fund. We don’t need a lot. Something to cover expenses, and if we get more we can send it to Rachel. She’s probably being starved in prison.’
    A party, Dora. Why not? It would bring people to the house. New contacts. As well as providing money, er, bread?, for the campaign fund.
    ‘You invite the university crowd,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring a group from the Labour Party, well, Young Socialists. We’ll ask everyone who comes to sign the petition and give a donation to the fund.’
    ‘OK.’ You laugh, and realize that you have not laughed like that for a long time. Not a real laugh.
    Philip looks around the room as he prepares to leave. ‘It’s a nice place,’ he says. ‘A really nice place.’
    And a fortnight later he is there again, together with his friends from the Young Socialists. Smiley is there with Sally Bowles. The University Socialist and Labour Societies, and the trappings of the party, wine, bottles and kegs of beer, and for you, Dora, a special treat and indulgence: a bottle of gin.
    You drink far too much of the gin. Smiley’s fault, of course. You would not have drunk so much if he had stayed away, or at least left his Sally Bowles at home. But she js there, looking ravishing, and young, and clinging to Smiley’s arm, her eyes flashing.
    The party works anyway, despite you, Dora. Someone takes over the record player and plays silly pop songs, which seem to be exactly what everyone wants. They drink, they