by Martin Howe
“Bastards.”
Chapter 4
OLYMPIAN HEIGHTS
7th June 1934
Eric’s room in the Black House was narrow, barely wide enough for a single bed and a small cabinet. It was one of ten similar “dens”, which opened off a corridor that was wider than the rooms themselves. It had once been a dormitory and had been subdivided when the British Union of Fascists took over the lease of the building.
“At least I’ve some privacy, even though anybody walking through can just peer straight in. The other poor sods have to sleep fifteen to a room. Had to pull rank to get in here. It pays to pull it when you can and believe me I pull it.”
Eric laughed and threw himself on the bed.
“Look, I’ve got half a window. Some of my elders and betters live in semi-darkness. But not me, I’m woken by the warm caresses of the rising sun. Not so sure about what’ll happen to you though, sleeping on the floor.”
There was barely a flicker of a smile on his face as he nodded at the worn mat at his feet.
“Make yourself at home. ‘Fraid there’s nowhere else. The place is packed out with people ready for tomorrow. You’ll have to make do with my threadbare Persian unless you fancy the bed, but it would be a tight squeeze.”
He chuckled to himself. Tony, too drunk to care, was silent.
“There might be some room in the cupboard if you’ve got anything valuable. Don’t leave it lying around, they’re a bunch of thieving bastards in here. Oh, and there’s a hanger for you in my dressing room.”
He pointed to a hook and a small brass rail attached to the wall at the side of the bed. He then doubled over in a fit of giggling. Tony, standing beside him, rocked forward and back, clutching his stomach.
“Shut up for Christ’s sake. I’m going to throw up.”
“Not all over me you’re not, you little swine. Can’t you hold your drink up North?”
Tony lunged at Eric and they fell back on to the mattress. Tony was tall and sinewy and had long since given up any serious exercise, unlike Eric who was stockier with a strong muscular frame, but he had the advantage of surprise. He forced Eric’s arms back above his head and pinned him down with the full weight of his body. His knees dug into Eric’s chest.
“Take it back, you bastard or you’ll never get up. Go on, take it back.”
Eric’s eyes gleamed as he stared up at Tony’s flushed face. He didn’t move for several seconds and then whispered, “Are you threatening me, you drunken Blackpudlian git? It’ll take a battalion of your lot to make me take it back.”
He quivered and Tony tightened his grip.
“Getting worried? You never looked like a fighter to me, more the bookish type. Won’t help you much now, will it? Be a difficult one to talk your way out of.”
Tony smiled.
“You think I’m jesting? Obviously you haven’t read the BUF regulation handbook. It’s a serious offence attacking a senior Party official. Fine, instant expulsion, the shame, you name it.”
Tony felt unsure, he didn’t really know this man. Was he joking?
“And that’s not even taking into account what my mates will do to you when they get to hear about it – which will be in about five minutes – unless you’re a tougher man than I imagine.”
It was over in a second. Tony loosened his grip and Eric grabbed him, flung him hard against the wooden partition, leapt up and pinned his shoulders to the bed. It moved slightly away from the wall.
“What’s it like this way round, eh? Not so brave now? Not feeling so clever?”
Tony’s eyes were watering. He could feel very little. Eric’s behaviour was a surprise, he was uncertain, but he was not scared. He was thinking would they accept being drunk as a defence?
Eric suddenly kissed him on the forehead, then flung himself down beside him on the bed. The two of them, their heads together on the pillow, stared at the ceiling.
“I had you going there, didn’t I? You looked as if you were going to piss yourself.”
He nudged Tony, and laughed.
“I told you it was always a good tactic to pull rank, works every time. If you fancy your chances against me you’ll need to get in shape.”
Relieved, Tony was breathing heavily. The room kept spinning, the garish blues and greens of the River Rhine, flashing before him. He shut his eyes, but it didn’t help.
“Have you ever been to Germany?” he asked trying to focus by nodding towards the tourist poster pinned on the wall above their heads.
“Changing the subject, are we? Yes, I was there a couple of months ago on a cycling tour. Got as far as Berlin. Had a great time. Lots going on there, in all sorts of ways. Really enjoyed myself. We’re planning to go again soon. You could come.”
Tony slurred his words of assent.
“God, I’m hungry, haven’t eaten all day. Bet you could do with some food, sober you up a bit. There’s a mess room here, grub’s so so.”
Eric got to his feet and held out a hand to Tony.
“Come on, let’s hope we’re not too late.”
The sound of a bugle cut the still air. It was dark. Tony was confused. He was freezing cold. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, a dull throbbing pain in his temples. His body ached and he couldn’t move his head. A momentary panic – there was movement above him – he was paralysed. He desperately needed to relieve himself.
Someone grunted.
“Eric?”
“Yes.”
“What time is it? Feels like the middle of the night.”
“Just gone six. Usual time for reveille. Better get going or we’ll be late for the run – the streets are pretty clear this time of the morning. Then we’ll just have time for a cold bath before breakfast.”
Tony groaned.
“You’re welcome to it. Is this how you Biff Boys spend your time? Bloody masochists.”
As he was speaking the lights in the corridor came on.
“Hands off cocks everyone, hands on socks. Time to rise and shine. Busy day today.”
“Sod off Beazley. I told you if you said that one more time I’d cut yours off.”
“I’d like to see you try you arrogant little bastard, at least I’ve got one to cut off.”
There was a yell from along the corridor and seconds later a naked figure rushed past the open end of Eric’s den. A door slammed and a man screamed.
“You’ve broken my fucking toe, you…help me someone. The swine’s broken my toe.”
Eric smiled down at Tony.
“Just another day at the Black House. Don’t worry about them they are always having a go at each other. Goes back a long way. They were either in the same regiment or the same prep school, I can’t remember.”
Tony’s head was wedged between the wall and the small cabinet. He was completely naked. His clothes were scattered under the bed and out into the corridor.
“What a sight first thing in the morning, what a body.”
“Give over, I feel terrible.”
“You look a bit peaky. You could run along to the sick bay. But,” he leaned over the edge of the bed, bringing his face close to Tony’s, “take a tip from one who knows, don’t tell nurse you had too much to drink, she can’t keep a secret, It’d be all round this place in hours and wouldn’t do your reputation any good at all.” He winked, “Don’t say I’m not your friend.”
“Thanks for nothing. How about you, how are you feeling?”
“Never better.”
Eric rose unsteadily to his feet and began bouncing up and down on the bed. He was also naked and Tony watched transfixed for a moment before glancing away. Seconds later he sat bolt upright and covered his groin with his hands. Eric grimaced and began leaping higher into the air. The bed creaked ominously. Tony edged nearer to the wall.
“There’s no need to be
shy”, Eric shouted, “I’ve seen it all before.”
“Baines, why don’t you shut up? Some of us like a bit of quiet when we get up in the morning.”
“Good morning to you too, Jimmy. Oh my, what’s that you’re doing? You’ll be wearing specs next if you’re not careful.”
A tousled haired man stuck his head out into the corridor and looked aghast as he saw Eric waving at him.
“You sod”, he grinned and disappeared back into his “den”, returning a second later with a shoe. He lobbed it at Eric. It missed its target, hit the wall and dropped into the “den” next door to Eric’s. There was a muffled yell.
“Sorry Bert, my old mate, apologies. Just mucking around.”
Eric breathing heavily bounced slowly to a stop.
“Jimmy the silly sod he believed me. Christ, I’d have to have been hanging from the bloody ceiling to have seen him handling his piece. Guilty conscience if you ask me.”
He collapsed on to the bed and pulled a sheet over his head.
“God, I feel faint.”
Tony meanwhile had slipped on his underpants, got unsteadily to his feet and was leaning against the entrance to the “den.” Materially present, but emotionally absent, he registered the frenetic activity around him but didn’t care enough to participate. Gripped by unsettling cramps in his stomach and intense pain deep behind his eyes, he was incapacitated physically. It was an effort to stand and with his mental capabilities befuddled by erotic thoughts he was barely able to function. The progress of his hangover had a reassuring inevitability about it – he was going to throw up. He had some control over the timing and the place, but could do nothing to alter this simple truth. Years of suffering from the condition and over-familiarity with the consequences had yielded no remedy. He had tried pints of tap water before bed, black tea, warm water with lemon and spoonfuls of sugar, dry toast, aspirin, stomach powders, cold baths, hot water bottles on his stomach, dark rooms, fresh air, long sea-walks, a shot of brandy and finally in extremis, yet more beer. Some of the cures delayed the crisis long enough that he thought he had got away with it, some hastened it, but none could halt it. He was resigned to his fate.
Obfuscation was now his sole aim – how to get away with being sick, without embarrassment. It was obvious that his new friends would be an unforgiving bunch. Not being able to hold your drink was, he was sure, a major failing. At home it was easy. Creep along to the bathroom, get down on your hands and knees in front of the toilet bowl and imagine: a knife slitting open the yolk of a soft fried egg, an overflowing gut bucket in the covered fish market on the front at Fleetwood, the smell of the ship canal on a hot summer’s day or the sensation of walking across the slippery, bloody sawdust strewn, black and white tiled floor of the back room in the local butchers, Slopes of Mafeking Street – “suppliers of fine cooked meats and sausages to the working man.”
Sitting down on the bed Tony was happy to wait for a while.
“How long are you going to be lounging there? We’ve got to get going, you know, if we want anything to eat before the parade briefing.”
Eric was standing and reaching for a neatly pressed uniform that was hanging on the clothes-rail. Tony noticed that his back was criss-crossed with faint ragged scars.
“Don’t mention food,” Tony whispered half-heartedly, “give me a few minutes.”
He shivered as he watched Eric put on the full BUF dress uniform. Tony had never seen one up close before. Although he had recently been promoted to the “First Division” he hadn’t been able to afford all the extras. Eric certainly had the physique and colouring to carry it off well. Black suited him.
“Can you see my shoes down there? They were under the bed, before you started messing around.”
He tucked the tails of his collarless black shirt into his pressed black trousers and looked down at Tony. With his right hand he did up the three buttons on his left shoulder.
“Any luck?”
“They’re right at the back, a towel or something has fallen on top of them.”
“Thanks. What do you think of these then?” he said showing Tony a pair of gold cufflinks, shaped like a lightning flash striking across a circle, that he had taken from his locked cupboard.
“Nice aren’t they? Our new party emblem. I prefer it to the old one.”
He pointed to the buckle of his thick black leather belt.
“Bloody Italians use this one. Just a bundle of sticks and an axe, which they stole from the Romans. Whereas, this is home-grown, truly British. How do they put it, “a flash of action in the circle of unity,” that’s more like it. Looks good on flags and stands out at rallies.”
“I like it too but isn’t that what the Communists call the “flash in the pan”?”
Eric laughed.
“True, true. That’s bloody funny. What’s it they say about the devil having all the best lines. Well, it’s true in this case, the bastards.”
Grinning he thumbed the cufflinks through his heavily starched shirt cuffs.
“Still it won’t put me off. It’s just one more thing for me to hate them for. Now where did you say my shoes were?”
“They’re at the …Oh no. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Eric waved his finger and smiled as Tony staggered down the corridor.
Twenty minutes later Tony found Eric in the mess room eating a large plate of bacon, eggs and fried bread.
“I’ve just been thinking of breakfast,” Tony said as he sat down.
“You’ll have to be quick if you want anything, most people have already eaten.”
“Just tea. That’ll do me fine, thanks. Can’t face anything else.”
“Tony and I had a basinful last night,” Eric said to the woman sitting opposite him.
“But he’s not had quite as much practice as I have.”
He elbowed Tony.
“Won’t take you long to catch up though will it?”
The woman was smiling at Tony.
“Eric has no manners. I’m Emily Carstairs. Pleased to meet you.”
“Sorry, Emily, you know me, dragged up. This is Tony Cox, a good friend of mine from up north – Blackpool. He’s a district leader or at least soon will be. He’s down for the rally. Thought I’d have him tag along with me, see how the real bastards live. Tony Cox this is Emily Carstairs. She’s a women’s district leader from … must be somewhere near you, Cheshire isn’t it?”
Emily nodded.
“But she’s been down here for six months or so acting as assistant to old Brock-Griggs, the Chief Women’s Officer. An influential lady our Miss Carstairs, well worth getting to know.”
Tony and Emily shook hands across the table. Her palm was hot, the fingers cool to the touch. Clear blue eyes stared intently, holding Tony’s gaze. He felt he should look away, but was transfixed, hazily absorbing all before him. Black hair pulled back in a tight bun framed a round pale face, a loose wisp softening the severity of the white slash of her central parting, red lips half-smiling, the only colour. Lightly powdered skin, unblemished except for a small mole on her left cheek, highlighted her charm. A blink of the eyes, a flutter of curling lashes, set him free.
“It would be my pleasure,” said Emily, “maybe after the march?”
She stood up, brushed the front of her grey skirt with both hands, picked up her empty plate and mug and carried them over to the scullery.
“Look after yourselves,” she called across the room, “they’re expecting trouble.”
“What’s new?” Eric cheerily called back, then lowering his voice said almost to himself, “She’s a good-looking woman, don’t you think Tony? Tall and slim, your type, eh Tony?”
He laughed.
“You’re probably not in a fit state to notice anything are you? Even beauty before your eyes.”
“No. She was very nice. How do you
know her?”
“I’ve got to know her quite well since she’s been here. She’s unattached. And I’ve always said there’s something about a women in uniform.”
Tony smiled. Eric’s a coarse bugger, he thought. Trouble was he never knew if he was poking fun or not.
“Are you seeing her?”
“Noooo.”
Eric grinned inanely.
“She’s all yours. If you’ve got the balls.”
He drained his mug of tea, belched silently onto the back of his hand and stood up, his chair noisily scraping the floor.
“If you’re not having anything we best get going. Don’t want to be late on duty do we, not on your first day.”
“I was hoping for a tea.”
His voice trailed off and he got unsteadily to his feet and followed Eric.
“Look, I should fill you in on a few things before we get going on the march.”
Eric and Tony were standing at the top of the wide staircase that swept down to the cramped entrance hall of the Black House, which was already a seething mass of jet figures. Except for, and Tony was watching him intently, a white-haired man who moved slowly across the room, like a rolling cue ball on a billiard table of dark baize. He disappeared through a side-door. With a start he realized Eric was speaking.
“…stick with me. I’ve cleared it with old Piercy. We’ll be the advance squad, four others will follow from here later. Our job’s to organize security when we get to Olympia. You can make yourself useful sticking up posters and the like. During the rally you’ll be with me. We’re one of the “Biff-Boy” flying squads. Any trouble we’re straight in. Sort it out or sort them out more likely. There’s no messing around. Any hecklers get shown the exit. Others will be waiting there to help them on their way. All clear?”
Tony nodded. He had been concerned, when it dawned on him, that he was likely to be in the thick of anything that happened. Now as his headache lifted and life began to take on a renewed clarity, unfiltered by pain, he acknowledged his own sense of anticipation and felt the excitement building around him.