Excerpt from Julia by Sandra Newman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Chapter One

It was the man from Records who began it, him all unknowing in his prim, grim way, his above-it-all, oldthink way. He was the one Syme called 'Old Misery'. He wasn't truly new to Julia. Fiction, Records and Research all took second meal at thirteen hundred, so you got to know everyone's face. But up to then, he'd really just been Old Misery, the one who looked like he'd swallowed a fly, who coughed more than he spoke. Comrade Smith was his right name, though 'Comrade' never suited him somehow. Of course, if you felt foolish calling someone 'Comrade', far better not to speak to them at all.

He was slight and very fair. Good-looking – or might have been, if he hadn't always looked so sour. You never saw him smile, unless it was the false smirk of Party piety. Julia made the error of smiling at him once, and got back a look that would sour milk. People said he excelled at his job but couldn't advance because his parents had been unpersons. One supposed that made him bitter.

Nonetheless, it was a shame how Syme tormented him. At the Ministry of Truth, Syme worked in research, devising Newspeak words. These were meant to purify everyone's mind but were mainly a pain in the arse to learn. Most folk muddled along, but Old Misery Smith couldn't even say 'ungood' without looking as if it scalded his mouth. Syme saw in this a reason to follow him around and act like his best friend, the better to pepper him with Newspeak terms and watch the fellow squirm. Smith also hadn't the stomach for public executions, so Syme would talk about the hangings he'd witnessed, making the noises of the strangling men and saying how he enjoyed it when their tongues lolled out. Smith turned positively green. That was the sort of fun Syme liked.

Julia had spoken to the man just once, when they got stuck together at a table in the canteen. She'd still harboured hopes for him then. There were so few attractive men at Truth and she'd thought she could nurse a crush on Smith to while away a tedious day. So she'd chattered with more warmth than was warranted about the new Three-Year Plan, and how Fiction had luckily got new workers, all praise to Big Brother, and how was Records bearing up?

Instead of answering, he'd said, not meeting her eye, 'So you work on one of the fiction machines?'

She'd laughed. 'I fix whatever breaks, comrade. It's not just one machine. That would be a fine machine, one you had to fix all day!'

'I always see you with a spanner.' His eyes went to the red Junior Anti-Sex League sash at her waist, then darted away hastily, as if he'd had an electric shock. She'd seen the silly blighter was afraid of her. He thought she was about to report him for sexcrime – as if she could see whatever filthiness he had cooking in his head!

Well, there wasn't much point after that. They had finished their meal in silence.



The day it changed was the morning O'Brien was in Fiction, a low April morning of evil winds, when all London rattled and moaned and seemed about to blow down around its own ankles. With O'Brien in, Fiction was a madhouse – everyone showing off how hard they could work – but Julia's side dried up. She spent the whole morning up on the walkway, watching in vain for the yellow flags that meant someone needed a repair. Normally, they sprouted like weeds, and Julia was dashing about all day to a refrain of: 'Comrade, it's making a rattle ... Oh, it's not doing it now. Could you just check?' Most service requests were just an excuse to sneak out for a chat and a gin, and Julia always played her part, shutting down the machine and pretending to hunt for the source of the phantom problem.

Today, not a rattle in the house. Everyone was too afraid of being taken for a saboteur by O'Brien. Julia spent the morning pacing the walkway, gasping for a fag but knowing all it wanted was a cigarette for her to look criminally idle.

Excerpted from Julia by Sandra Newman. Copyright © 2023 by Sandra Newman. Excerpted by permission of Mariner Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.