He pulled back from the microphone and, like a ballet, behind him the other Secretaries filed on from the sides. Kim Philby and Arthur Wynn took their seats at the side of the dais. They looked self-assured. Today was the day they jostled for public recognition, building popularity among the people, while their backroom deals for influence stayed hidden. Yet someone was missing: the Secretary for Information, Guy Burgess, never appeared. And he was said to be the most ambitious of all.

‘Have they purged Burgess already?’ I heard someone snigger. ‘Gone like Cairncross?’

‘Shut up,’ a woman muttered angrily.

The man must have been drunk. Nobody dared mention John Cairncross in public these days. Not since he had been caught sabotaging our industrial effort in order to aid the Americans. His trial had been broadcast on the radio, and he had famously broken down in tears when the verdict was announced, mumbling an apology to the nation that he had betrayed for money. At the end, it was said that he had looked up towards the public gallery, as if hoping to spot someone there, but the only spectators were feverishly clapping the judgement.

Blunt’s speech boomed for half an hour through the damp air. He spoke of our place in the world and our commitment to the peoples of other nations before returning, at the end, to ourselves. ‘We are pioneers,’ he said, his voice alive with self-belief. ‘Ahead of us is a new land of equality and justice and plenty for all, where the people who create the wealth have equal shares in that wealth, instead of being forced to stand by and see it leached away by birth right and privilege.’ The crowd bristled with energy at his words. ‘Yes, we are pioneers of a new land, yes, we are pioneers of a new, better humanity!’ And they burst out in cheers, men and women crying for their golden future. The Red Guards fired into the air. And again. And again.

And yet, when Blunt retired to a wall of applause led by Comrade Philby, who thanked the First Secretary for his inspirational words, he had been on his feet for far less time than in previous years. That sign, we all knew, would be pored over in the privacy of people’s homes that evening – not to mention at the DUK’s London headquarters in St James’s Palace.