“What a nice picture,” she said fondly. “Three kids working quietly.” She still had a distinctive American accent, though its edges had been worn smooth by her living in London for a quarter of a century. She looked with surprise at Dave’s flags. “You don’t often take an interest in world affairs.”

“I’m going to sell them for sixpence each.”

“I might have guessed your efforts had nothing to do with world peace.”

“I leave world peace to Evie.”

Evie said with spirit: “Someone has to worry about it. We could all be dead before this march begins, you know—just because Americans are such hypocrites.”

Jasper looked at Daisy, but she was not offended. She was used to her daughter’s abrasive ethical pronouncements. Mildly, she said: “I guess Americans have been badly scared by the missiles in Cuba.”

“Then they should imagine how other people feel, and take their missiles out of Turkey.”

“I think you’re right, and it was a mistake for President Kennedy to put them there. All the same, there’s a difference. Here in Europe we’re used to having missiles pointed at us—on both sides of the Iron Curtain. But when Khrushchev secretly sent missiles to Cuba he made a shocking change in the status quo.”

“Justice is justice.”

“And practical politics is something else. But look how history repeats itself. My son is like my father, always alert for an opportunity to make a few bucks, even on the brink of World War Three. My daughter is like my Bolshevik uncle Grigori, determined to change the world.”

Evie looked up. “If he was a Bolshevik, he did change the world.”

“But was it for the better?”

Lloyd came in. Like his coal-mining ancestors, he was short in stature with broad shoulders. Something about the way he walked reminded Jasper that he had once been a champion boxer. He was dressed with old-fashioned flair, in a black suit with a faint herringbone stripe, a crisp white linen handkerchief in his breast pocket. The two parents were obviously going to a political event. “I’m ready if you are, my darling,” he said to Daisy.

Evie said: “What’s your meeting about?”

“Cuba,” said her father. “What else?” He noticed her placard. “I see you’ve already made up your mind about the issue.”

“It’s not complicated, is it?” she said. “The Cuban people should be allowed to choose their own destiny—isn’t that a basic democratic principle?”

Jasper saw a row looming. In this family, half the rows were about politics. Bored by Evie’s idealism, he interrupted. “Hank Remington is going to sing ‘Poison Rain’ in Trafalgar Square tomorrow.” Remington, an Irish boy whose real name was Harry Riley, was leader of a pop group called the Kords. The song was about nuclear fallout.

“He’s wonderful,” said Evie. “So clear thinking.” Hank was one of her heroes.

“He came to see me,” said Lloyd.

Evie immediately changed her tone. “You didn’t tell me!”

“It happened only today.”

“What did you think of him?”