La read this and thought of what the words the end meant. They meant the end of the trees on her lawn, of her old house, of the lanes that ran into the countryside, of the hedges at their sides, of the innocent air, of the high, empty skies of her part of England. It meant the end of the village pub, of the butcher’s boy with his bicycle, the end of London, of the radio, of music.

On that first night of the crisis La could not sleep. She lay there in the darkness and looked at the ceiling. It would come quickly, they said. There would only be, what? a four-minute warning. Four minutes. What could we do about it? She reflected on the fact that you couldn’t do anything once the build-up started; you couldn’t come face to face with the people concerned and say stop; or go down on your bended knees and implore them not to continue. You could not, because the people concerned were hidden behind doors and walls; they were deep in bunkers, behind concrete, far away. You could not speak to them.

She got up at four in the morning, not having slept at all. She had decided, and the decision survived the turning on of her light. She would hold a peace concert, urgently, in a few days’ time. She would gather her orchestra. She would pay their train fares. She would bring the orchestra together – for one last time – in a concert for peace. It didn’t matter if nobody heard it or took any notice. It would have happened. They would have done something. 96

14

She wasted no time in telephoning the members of the orchestra. Some of them could not be traced, of course; some were dead, or had not been heard of for years. But word got out, and one would telephone another. Slowly the sections came together and agreed: yes, they could come and play in the concert. ‘It will be pretty much a scratch performance,’ said La, ‘maybe one rehearsal.’ Nobody minded that. They would be there.

She telephoned Feliks last because she at least knew exactly how to contact him, and because she had been anxious about it. He was silent for a few moments after she had explained to him what it was about.

‘You want me to come, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m asking you to come.’ She felt that it was almost as if she was calling in a favour, but she wanted him there, she particularly wanted him there. ‘Bring your little boy with you,’ she said.

‘I will,’ he said.

They arrived. She watched old friends catching up and exchanging addresses. She thought, if it doesn’t work, if there’s no peace this time, then those addresses will simply cease to exist. It’s different this time.

They managed one rehearsal, a brief one, and then the concert took place. Word had got round, and people came; too many, in fact, with the result that they had to open the doors of the hall and let people listen from outside. La sat at the back of the hall, as she always did, and at her side was Feliks’s little boy, now eight. He behaved well, holding a small toy car that he played with discreetly on his knee, driving it up and down. She glanced down at him and smiled. He smiled back.