Part 3 - At War There was so much to do in the Thaxted of the late 1930s. Musical festivals, folkloric gatherings, maypole and Morris dancing. The Conrads were buffs and encouragers of English traditions so that even if you weren't a Marxist-Leninist there was still plenty to enjoy. Peggy's first boyfriend was Gerald Doyle. He went to a different school, Chelmsford Boys Grammar, but lived only one street away in Thaxted. The Doyle's were very active at St John's and Gerald was an enthusiastic member of CEBS, the Church of England Boy's Society. At 14, he was in his final year as an 'Esquire' and was soon to become a 'Knight'. He was showing Peggy his merit badges. Most, like his cycling and camping badges, had come from the church supplies store in London. But a couple, Agit-prop and Leninist Studies, were hard to come by and had been hand-sewn by Mrs Noel, the vicar's wife. Peggy was deeply envious. In 1938 the Girls' Friendly Society had no merit badges.[1] Not for the first time she was struck by the basic inequalities between male and female in contemporary Western society.

The summer of 1939 was idyllic. Peggy was enjoying her studies, especially chemistry. She had friends at school, in town and at GFS. The only black spot on the horizon was her worsening relationship with her father. Oh, and the actions of that madman, Hitler, in Germany. The trouble was, he was so reactionary! The other day at the breakfast table he was criticising St Henry VIII. "Killed 70,000," her father pronounced, "typical C of E!" " That's so unfair!" Peggy had protested. "If you count all the criminals executed over a 38 year reign, that's barely five a day. I would have thought 'chop off their heads, it's the only language they understand' would have been a sentiment after your own heart. But if you're going to say that St Henry personally authorised all 70,000 deaths I'm going to have to ask for a cite!" "Cite?" asked Alfred dazedly. It was not a word he encountered much in his day-to-day life as a prosperous small businessman and a Methodist lay-reader. "Well what about Queen Anne Boylen and Queen Catherine Howard? He gave the orders for those executions." "Oh, Daddy! These women were proven to be unfaithful to him. If Mummy committed adultery you wouldn't just stand quietly by. You'd do something, wouldn't you?" Alfred looked to Beatrice. Beatrice looked straight back at him. There seemed to be no safe answer to that question. Alfred let the C of E baiting lapse.

Peggy had let her ideological loyalties transfer from her father to another elderly authority figure, the Rev Conrad Noel. In truth Father Noel's political stance was just as inchoate and visceral as Alfred Roberts'. But Peggy put her analytical mind to the task of assembling a coherent world view from the bits and pieces. This task was still underway when the terrible event occurred. On August 23 Vyacheslav Molotov and Joachim von Ribbentrop signed the Pact of Steel. This event divided the town like none other. Even the Battle of the Flags had drawn the townsfolk, by and large, closer together. "A betrayal of the workers of the world," said Father Conrad. "A necessary action to preserve the Revolution in Russia at a time of capitalist decadence and weakness in the face of the Nazi threat," said the Rev John Putterill, better known as Father Jack. The townsfolk aligned themselves either with Father Conrad or Father Jack except for a few independents like Alfred Roberts who had their own take on matters. Subsequent events, the German invasion of Poland, the British declaration of war, and the Soviet occupation of Eastern Poland only widened the divide between the Noel and Putterill factions. This division was most keenly felt in the Thaxted rectory, where Father Jack was Father Conrad's curate and son-in-law. For Mrs Putterill, as a daughter and wife, it was particularly hard. Yet others were hurt in these dark times too. An angry Peggy Roberts confronted Gerald Doyle by the abandoned Webb's windmill. "How dare you take Father Jack's side in this!" "But Peggy! The Soviet Union is the only communist nation of note. If it fails to act in its own interest and it falls, then there is no home for revolution!" "The home for revolution should be in our hearts! Working people everywhere can be revolutionaries, not just in Russia. If Stalin cosies up to the Nazis then, then... he's no better than Hitler!" Peggy realised she had gone too far but she had said it. Gerald pulled himself up to his full height. "If that is what you think, then there's nothing more to say," he declared. He walked off without a backwards glance. They had parted brass rags. Peggy was heart-broken. But more than that, she was cross with herself. Gerald had been so handsome, it had blinded her to the fact that he was nothing but a Third Internationalist. Hadn't she not promised herself earlier that she would look for the real person and not the superficial?

In a way it was good that Muriel was now living and working as a nurse in Birmingham. She had always been fond of Father Jack although not an ideological acolyte. So mealtime conversations at the Roberts' were not as fraught as they might have been. In fact, Alfred was rather pleased with how his little girl was growing up. It being a Saturday he was looking up from a copy of The Times. On weekdays the Roberts took The Telegraph but Alfred thought it important to get a variety of viewpoints. When he pontificated about these terrible pro-Moscow Reds and their 'stop the Imperialist war' nonsense, she agreed that the Nazis must be fought to the bitter end. True, when he suggested that what the Russians needed was a new Tsar of the Orthodox faith over them, that nice young Greek prince Phillip perhaps, she seemed a little distant but what teenager wasn't moody from time to time?

Over in the Rectory, the news that Trotsky had been killed by a GRU icepick, set relations from chilly to icy.

Peggy wasn't attending GFS any more. Her Wednesday nights were spent in a Services canteen, serving buns and tea to RAF ground crews from nearby Essex air fields. Even so, she still saw Father Conrad frequently - he saw her as a woman of promise and took time to mentor her. He asked her about her future directions. She explained that she saw herself as a chemist. "I'm good at Chemistry at school. And there's so many exciting things happening in Chemistry today - discovering the secrets of the atom, new materials like plastics." Father Conrad hemmed and hawed, "The worker's paradise is going to need chemists, it's true. And I'm sure you'll make a first class chemist, if that's what you want." If that's what I want? thought Peggy. Out loud she asked, "What else could I be?" "You have a fine mind but a finer conscience. Best of all, you are unafraid to speak your mind. Any brilliant woman can be a chemist but few have what it takes to be an advocate." "An advocate?" "A lawyer. Specifically, a barrister." Peggy was confused. "But barristers are money-bags. Or leastwise in the pay of money-bags. They are hired mouths for privilege, for capitalists and land-owners." "Mostly so," Father Conrad conceded. "Which is why it is so important to redress the balance. There is still work to be had for a militant barrister, whether in government service or working for the trade unions." Peggy promised him that she'd think about it. She had a lot to think about. In 1941 the Blitz was lessening but there was other worrying news. Hitler, in an act of bad faith, had turned on his former ally Stalin. If only Stalin could have been resolute in 1939. But no use crying over spilt milk. The newspapers were showing the German advance was faster than that against France. The people of Russia, the soldiers, workers, peasants and intellectuals, seemed brave enough. "Braver than the French at any rate" she could hear her father's voice in her mind. But bravery was not enough against a pitiless war machine. The last, best hope for freedom seemed to be America. But Roosevelt, that tool of the plutocrats, seemed blind to the dangers. German soldiers were even advancing in Russia using Ford trucks built under license. The US would be the last to be attacked, and the last to fall, but fall they would, foolish victims of their own short-sightedness. Truly, the capitalist will sell the rope by which they will be hung, she thought. It was with such heavy thoughts in her heart that see opened that tool of the oppressors, The Daily Telegraph, one winter Monday. She read the headline 'JAPS ATTACK US FLEET AT HAWAII - 3,000 Dead'. She clutched the paper to her breast and exclaimed, "Rejoice! Rejoice!" [If you'll just let me continue.]

[1] In the more individualistic and recognition oriented 21st century, such badges now exist. Often sewn onto sleeping bags, I'm given to understand.