Freshers’ Fair was awash with noisy masculinity. Men talking in loud voices, men on the stands shouting to be heard, male bodies pressing against one another and thrusting to get through the knot of undergraduates clustered round the popular stands. There was only a sprinkling of women, and most of them looked rather alarmed to find themselves among so many men.
‘There’s a peculiar smell in here,’ Lally said, wrinkling her elegant nose.
‘Men,’ Claudia said instantly. ‘I bet Hugh’s school smelt like this, didn’t it, Vee? It’s when they’re all together, there’s always a pong. And some of them here don’t wash that much, if you ask me. Don’t worry, you’ll get accustomed to it.’
Vee wasn’t worrying about the smell. Her eyes were scanning the tables and placards and banners proclaiming various activities: some sporting, some erudite, some absurd, like the Tiddlywinks Soc. ‘I’m sure most of these clubs and societies don’t welcome women,’ she said to Lally, who had her startled look again.
‘Too right,’ said a man wearing cricketing flannels and blazer, who was sitting at a nearby table. ‘This is what the university’s all about, sport and having a good time, and you female undergraduates come butting in, wanting to work and take life seriously, it’s a crashing bore.’
‘I play baseball back home,’ Lally said, ignoring the cricketing fan. ‘Do you suppose there’s a baseball club?’
A burst of song rose from the other side of the room.
Lally cupped her hand to her ear. ‘That sounds fun. I like to sing.’
‘Gilbert and Sullivan, and I bet they don’t take women members, either,’ said Claudia. ‘They’ll get singers for the female roles up from London.’
Lally went over to investigate a stand where they were singing madrigals and came back to report that was men only, too. ‘Imagine, they have men singing alto and soprano, did you ever hear anything like it? When there are women around.’
‘They think it’s traditional, I expect,’ Vee said. Her attention had been caught by a lanky individual in a faded pair of flannel trousers, held up at the waist by a frayed tie. On his top half, he wore a grubby fawn jumper. ‘Join now, join now, equal shares for everyone, that’s our motto,’ he was bellowing through a megaphone, drowning out the frail sound of the madrigal group.
He was an arresting figure, with dark hair that fell forward from an untidy parting to be pushed back with an impatient hand, a hand with long, muscular fingers, a strong hand. He radiated energy, but there was a quirkiness to his mouth that suggested the intensity was alleviated by a sense of humour.
‘R-A-P-M-O-C,’ Claudia read out the sign propped on the table. ‘Rapmoc? What on earth’s that?’
The young man lowered his megaphone. ‘Rational and Political Men Only Club.’
‘There you are,’ Vee said. ‘You asked, and he’s told you, if you’re any the wiser for knowing.’
‘Good Lord, it’s Alfred Gore, isn’t it?’ said Claudia. ‘My mother’s your godmother, only you never come to see her, so perhaps you aren’t aware of it. You were at Eton with my brother Jerry. Stop brandishing that megaphone and tell us why you don’t want women in your club.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Claudia Vere.’
‘I suppose you are,’ he said, after giving her a hard stare. ‘You’ve got Jerry’s eyes, all you Veres have those very blue eyes. Anyhow, don’t take any notice of the club name, we welcome people of all sexes. Or none. Come along and drink beer and talk serious politics. Thursday evening in the Arnold Room at Balliol.’
‘What a bore that sounds,’ Claudia said.
Vee had seen Hugh on the other side of the room. ‘Hello, Hugh!’ she called out, standing on tiptoe, and waving a handful of leaflets. ‘Over here.’
Hugh surged through the crowd, followed by a tall, fair man with a handsome face. ‘Vee, this is Giles Hotspur, we were at Repton together, and we share a set. My sister Verity, only we call her Vee. Hello, Alfred, no good shouting your wares, however much you yell and make a noise, it won’t add up to a sensible argument. Don’t go near that organization, Vee,’ he said, waving towards Alfred, who had started work again with his megaphone.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s the Communist outfit. They aren’t allowed to be the Communist Society or club or whatever, the proctors won’t have it. You’ll be in deep trouble with your Dean if you attend a meeting and get busted. Red faces, never mind red politics. That’s why they call themselves that idiotic name. It’s Com Par backwards, you see. Bags, there, is a Marxist.’
‘Bags?’ said Claudia.
‘It’s all he wears. Hasn’t got a suit as far as anyone knows. Always goes about in disreputable bags and a ghastly pullover.’
‘Is he very hard up?’ Vee asked. ‘Surely, if he went to Eton …’
‘His people have got plenty of money, but since he took up the Cause, he likes to identify with the working masses who don’t have many changes of clothes. Solidarity, you see.’
Vee only had a vague idea of what a Marxist was. Both at school and at home, it was a word that wasn’t mentioned, and when she’d asked a question at either place, she had quickly been silenced. ‘Are all Communists Marxists?’
‘The most extreme are, and since they’re all extreme, yes, you could say Marxists and Communists are one and the same. However, we’ll all be Communists and Marxists soon, it’s quite the coming fashion. I bet membership of RAPMOC is growing fast.’
Vee was shocked; where she came from, at school and at the Deanery, Communists were Bolshevists, and there was no question but that Bolshevism was the work of the devil.
Alfred was looking at Vee with a quizzical expression in his eyes. ‘Do you know that nearly a quarter of the working population are unemployed? Do you have any idea how difficult it is for an unemployed worker to keep body and soul together, let alone his family fed and housed? The working man can’t take much more, and when he rises up to throw off the chains of capitalism, then you’ll see what the word revolution means.’
‘Is Communism really the answer?’ asked Lally. ‘Matters are pretty dire in the States, but I don’t think anyone’s predicting a blood-red revolution. I guess if Roosevelt gets elected, he’ll do his best for the working man.’
‘With the Depression you’ve got over there? You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Alfred waved his megaphone in the air. ‘Come to our next meeting, then you might begin to understand what politics really is, all you women have your heads in the sand.’
‘Thank you for the kind invitation,’ said Lally, ‘but I think I’ll pass.’ And to Claudia and Vee: ‘I’m going to go sign up for the Bach Choir. They surely have to have women in that.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Claudia. ‘They probably prefer little boys.’
A thought occurred to Vee. ‘Hugh, what are you doing here? You aren’t a Fresher.’
‘I’m manning the Poetry Society stand. Better hop back to it, in fact. Care to join?’
‘Are women allowed to be members?’
‘Of course you are,’ he said, suddenly cross. ‘All these misogynist groups here, they’re out of touch with the times.’
She put her name down, although she didn’t think she’d go to any of the meetings or readings. She’d leave the poetry to Hugh. She signed up for the Literary Society and the French Club, avoided the blandishments of the Women’s Hockey