The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  “All very clear. Look, thanks Eric, I appreciate what you are doing for me.”

  “It’s nothing. But just you remember who your friends are. Which reminds me,” and he thrust his hand into a trouser side pocket and pulled out two brass knuckledusters, “these are a couple of my best friends, never go anywhere without them. Feel naked if I do. Here have one of them. Wouldn’t want you naked and vulnerable twice in one day would we?”

  Tony cradled the warm smooth metal object in the palm of his hand. It was heavier than he expected. His fingers fitted comfortably through the worn rings.

  “I do,” he mumbled.

  “Till death us do part, eh? Come on don’t flash it around. Everyone will want one. We leave here at four, on parade at three thirty. I’ve got to go to a briefing so amuse yourself for a few hours will you. Take a look around, get a feel for the place. Meet up here at three fifteen.”

  With that he ran down the stairs, taking the steps three at a time. Tony watched him disappear into the crush of people in the hall and then turned and made his way slowly along the landing to Eric’s den. He gathered up his scattered belongings and stuffed them into his small canvas suitcase. He lay down on the bed and immediately fell asleep. He was awakened by laughter in the corridor. He sat bolt upright.

  “Were they laughing at him?”

  He’d been dribbling and hastily wiped his mouth. But there were no sneering faces, no pointing fingers, just a dim light bulb swaying gently in a draft. Tony shivered. Then looked anxiously at the small alarm clock on the cupboard beside the bed. Ten to two. He bent over and tried the cupboard door, but it was locked. He pulled the drawer, it opened easily and he just caught the tray before its contents spilled onto the floor.

  “Bugger.”

  He lifted it back and slid it into place.

  “Ahh, thank God.”

  He took out an open packet of Ardath straight cut, placed a cigarette in this mouth and rummaged through the drawer looking for a match.

  “I don’t believe it, there’s a bloody medicine chest in here.”

  He reached across and patted the pocket of his jacket, he then peered back into the drawer. There were numerous medicine bottles and pill boxes: Dr White’s Kompo for colds, Cephos tablets, Philip’s Dental Magnesia for smokers fur, Doans backache kidney pills and a half empty bottle of Milk of Magnesia; a bar of Bodyguard soap, a crumpled bag of mint humbugs, a crimson velvet cloth folded around three medals, a couple of black and white photographs – one showing a smartly-dressed man and a women in a fur coat standing by a lake, the other two men on a beach in swimming trunks smiling at the camera – a dirty handkerchief, an advert torn out of a newspaper “Kill Rats with Rodine”, but no matches. Tony slipped the cigarette back into the packet, “The Navy’s favourite cigarette.”

  “It’s certainly not mine”, he muttered.

  He had slept deeply, but was uneasy, concerned that he had missed something, let someone down. He still felt slightly nauseous. The air was stuffy and heavy with dust. He watched the motes dance in the sunlight streaming through Eric’s half window. It was a beautiful day outside.

  “Fresh air is what I need. A curse on the noble weed.”

  Before leaving he checked his appearance in the mirror. He looked pale and tired. Tony slapped himself hard on both sides of his face and a red hue suffused his cheeks. His clothes were creased but, he thought, as he combed his greasy hair, “no one will notice”, that was one of the advantages of wearing black.

  Tony was slightly over six feet tall, lean, muscular, yet with a bulky softness that diminished the impact of his physical presence, making him appear ponderous. He had thick dark brown hair, tinged with auburn, that he liked to let grow so that it curled over his collar. He also wore it long at the front and swept it back from his forehead in a grand gesture that he slicked down with Brylcreem, an act of sleek defiance that set him apart from everyone but his fellow fascists. He had pronounced features, a hard jaw-line and a large thin nose, “a Roman nose, if ever I’ve seen one,” he’d been told innumerable times, and piercing brown eyes. He was vain enough never to have grown a moustache, even though it was fashionable in the Party, but not conceited enough to think he was good-looking. He saw himself as open and approachable, but had a face that in repose, appeared stern and aloof. He would never reconcile himself to this conundrum, and throughout life would be disappointed at the barrenness of all but a few of his friendships.

  Outside, the sun was achingly bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was a hot afternoon. Tony stepped back into the shadow of the grand doorway of the Black House and looked out across the “parade ground” to the King’s Road. A small crowd was milling around at the entrance and several passersby were reading a notice pinned to one of the gateposts. A blackshirt guard was giving directions to an elderly gentleman dressed in a dark overcoat and hat. Two policemen strolled by and Tony noticed there were others standing together on the opposite side of the road. He desperately needed a cigarette. It was a wonderful day and he was finally starting to feel human again.

  When he had peered out of the window of Eric’s den earlier that afternoon, down on to Cheltenham Terrace and the exit ramp for the underground garage, Tony had seen a couple of men in overalls working on the roof of a “battle” van. One had been smoking. Descending the steps he turned right and headed for the narrow passageway that ran between the railings and the side wall of the Black House. The plane trees moving in the breeze cast sun-stippled shade shimmering across the red bricks. In the Duke of York’s barracks a platoon of soldiers in full service uniform was marching back and forth, the barked orders of the Sergeant Major harshly audible. There was a police van parked in the street, five constables leaned on the railings, talking, their helmets in their hands. They looked across when Tony appeared at the corner. He nodded.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” said one of the mechanics when Tony reached the garage, “some of them can turn quite nasty. Them lot’s regulars, will have marked you down for sure.”

  “I was only passing the time of day, any way I’m not from round here.”

  “Take my advice and keep your eyes open if you’re on the march today.”

  “Thanks, will do. What I was hoping was you might be able to spare me a smoke, I’m gasping?”

  For the next hour Tony stood and talked to the two men. They were wiring up speakers on top of the van and checking microphones.

  “Some of them never miss the chance to tell people what’s what. I’ve seen old Mosley up on top here, speaks for hours sometimes. Bloody marvellous, moves ’em to tears he does. Never known him at a loss for words. Not like some of ’em, gor blimey they’re all over the place. But it’s not for me to say, my job’s to keep this running smoothly, drive ‘em here and there and get ‘em out of wherever, sometimes bloody quickly I can tell you. They may not look it, but these vans are specials – bloody powerful engines under that bonnet.”

  “Look I’ve got to go. Thanks I feel a whole lot better now, I was hung over when I first spoke to you.”

  Eric was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

  “Word is we can expect trouble today,” he said. “The Communists are planning something special. Seems they’re angry that the Albert Hall meeting was such a success. They’ve been bleating about it in their rag. At the briefing they showed us some clippings from the Daily Worker. Usual load of cobblers, but they’re calling for a “counter-demonstration” at Olympia to meet, how do they put it, “Mosley’s challenge to the working class”. For God’s sake I’m working class, most of us are, they don’t know what they’re talking about. It really makes me angry …”

  He dramatically pummeled the wall with his fists.

  “I must have been an idiot. Oh, that reminds me, there was one good bit, you’ll like this, I saved it for you.”

  He took out a folded piece of newsp
aper from his pocket and read with a slow slurred accent.

  “Mosley’s tune is the old capitalist one dished up through new instruments – the knuckleduster.”

  Eric smiled.

  “And we were just discussing that very political point weren’t we, comrade. Not more than two hours ago.”

  He looked at Tony.

  “What do you think comrade?”

  “If that was meant to be a Lancashire accent, it was rubbish. Would get your head kicked in by any self-respecting Lancastrian, let alone Communist, in any pub in the north. Don’t think of going on the stage.”

  Eric clapped him on the back.

  “Enough, we’d better get ready. Here put on this arm band, makes you an honorary Biff Boy for the day.”

  “How many are they expecting?”

  “The “Worker’s” talking about tens of thousands, but then they would. The best guess seems to be there will be a few thousand. The problem comes if any of them get into the hall. That’s where we come in. Get them out fast with the minimum of fuss. Mosley doesn’t mind the odd interruption, gives him a chance to go on about the threat to the freedom of speech, the depths to which our opponents will sink and so on. But not too many, breaks the flow, you know. The key this time round is firm but fair, at least while people are watching.”

  Outside on the parade ground the Blackshirts were drawn up in marching order when Eric and Tony arrived. There were three columns of at least two hundred men and about fifty women, all dressed in black. Many wore medal ribbons, the only flash of colour. Eric saluted the senior team leader, who had been drilling the squads, and Tony was directed to a place in one of the outside ranks close to the front of the first column. Eric then addressed the assembled company in a sonorous, commanding voice unlike anything Tony had heard from him before.

  “This is one of the most important occasions in the short life of our movement in this country. This meeting at Olympia will be the largest in our history, in the audience will be peers of the realm, politicians, business men, and the working man, they will be coming to hear what we have to offer this great country of ours. We must not disappoint them. We must be disciplined, well ordered and we must, under no circumstances, under whatever provocation, whatever insult, break ranks and react either verbally or physically. We can expect trouble, and believe me it is out there looking for us, but, and I must make this absolutely clear, we will not go looking for it. We are in the vanguard of a new beginning for Great Britain. Let’s march. God save the King.”

  All in the columns raised their right arms in salute. There were cheers from the windows of the Black House and a few boos from people in the street. Foolish, thought Tony as he saw a couple of Blackshirts chasing three boys round the corner into a side street. Eric took his place at the head of the parade.

  “Attention. Quick march. Left, right, left, right, left.”

  They moved smartly out into the King’s Road, halting traffic on the busy thoroughfare, horns blared as the marchers headed towards Sloane Square. Policemen immediately joined them, taking up positions on either side of the snaking column. Tony was amused to see that they were soon walking in step. A few children stopped to watch, but Blackshirts were a common sight in this part of London and most people paid little attention. A taxi driver gave the thumbs up sign, waved and continuously blew his horn as he overtook the procession. His passenger gaped, open-mouthed through a side window. The cab was followed by a crowded double-decker bus, belching exhaust fumes as it rattled past, ranks of pale faces staring through grimy glass. Tony felt invigorated. He had only been on one other BUF march and that had been in Manchester on a wet Saturday earlier that year, hardly anybody had turned up and they had broken up and gone for a drink as soon as the pubs had opened.

  A disturbance in the air marked their progress up Sloane Street away from the Square – shouts and catcalls intermingling with the resolute tramp of parading feet amplifying the chaotic noises of urban life into a confused din – a noise that inexorably rolled forward announcing their presence and threatening their imminent arrival.

  Two schoolgirls began running alongside trailing scarves, cheering and clapping. People appeared at windows, some waved, others just watched. Near the junction with Pont Street an elderly women appeared on her balcony and threw down a bunch of red roses. Tony had to stop himself from catching one, to save it from being trampled under the marching boots.

  At the top of Sloane Street the column turned left into Knightsbridge, distracted shoppers stared, pedestrians slowed. A cameraman snapped pictures, before running ahead and speaking to Eric, who nodded. The column slowed almost to a halt, the photographer quickly set up his tripod, adjusted the camera, peered through the lens and waved.

  “Quick march!”

  They were almost upon him.

  “Eyes right, salute.”

  The Blackshirts stiffened and raised their arms. The shutter clicked noisily, the flash bulb exploded, a white cloud enveloping the stooping figure. Tony felt immensely proud. He was part of something important, his individuality subsumed into a greater identity, beyond his puny imagining. It was a unique feeling to be invincible, able to sweep all before him. Tears filled his eyes. He looked away, hoping no one would notice this failing. Across Hyde Park the sun was shining through the tall trees, riders on the bridleway reined in their horses as they approached the road, seeing the Blackshirts for the first time, giving way, as Tony thought, to the tide of history.

  The marchers, buoyed by their brush with the press, began to sing as they drew level with the Albert Memorial.

  “Comrades: the voices of the dead battalions

  of those who fell that Britain might be great.

  Join in our song, for they still march in spirit with us.

  And urge us on to gain the fascist state.”

  Tony had learnt the lines of the Party marching song from the pages of “Action”, but had never heard them sung before. He was a diffident singer and in church had mumbled his way through the hymns, his head bowed. Even here among this group of fellow-travellers, on a busy noisy street, he lacked confidence and silently mouthed the words.

  “Gainst vested powers, the Red front and massed ranks of reaction we lead the fight for freedom and for bread.

  The streets are still; the final struggles’ ended;

  flushed with the fight we proudly hail the dawn!”

  As their voices swelled in volume, drowning out the city hubbub, a marcher in the centre of the row ahead of Tony raised the banner of the British Union of Fascists, it hung limply in the still warm air. Further down the column two Union Jacks were unfurled.

  “See, over all the streets the fascist banners waving – triumphant standard of a race reborn.”

  Ragged cheers rang out. They were passing the grounds of Kensington Palace.

  “Eyes right, salute.”

  The column picked up pace. The rhythmic beat of the marching boots carrying Tony along, swept forward by the surging presence and physical power of the massed ranks, an encompassing entity outside of his experience and within whose ambit he felt secure. Absorbed, he could watch the relentless passing – precipitous buildings, ornate facades, peeling trunks of leaning London Plane trees, their leafy branches silhouetted overhead, hazily obscuring the vivid blue slash of sky, the faint silhouette of a wheeling flock of pigeons catching his eye.

  Shouting close by. His mood punctured. The column tensed, men immediately alert. A pack at bay.

  “Fascist swine, get off our streets. Blackshirt vermin get back to your sewers. Off, off, off our streets.”

  The man striding next to Tony nudged him, “Here we go, keep your eyes open… There they are, over there.”

  He pointed. A group of men were standing at the junction of Campden Hill Road, waving their fists and chanting.

  “Off, off, off our streets, fascist swine, get o
ff.”

  One of the protestors, a tall thin man, dressed in a long overcoat with weighted pockets, dashed into the road ahead of the column and gesticulated wildly. He backed slowly down the centre of the street shouting abuse. Nobody in the front row took any notice of his protest.

  “You jumped up little Hitlers, you junior Mussolinis, you Jew-haters, you sewer-rats, crawl back to where you came from. Bastards. Damn you all. We’ll break your heads don’t you worry, bastards. You at the front I’ll remember you, the biggest bastard of them all.”

  He veered off, retreating across the road, shouting as he went. Eric called out, “We know you, we know who you are.”

  The jeering and booing continued as they strode down Kensington High Street. A glass bottle shattered on the road, a woman ran up and spat on one of the marchers. He swore at her. Suddenly, a large flat-bed dray drawn by two black and white shire horses pulled slowly out of a narrow side street ahead of them. Angling the cart across the road, the drayman reined in, dismounted and went to the rear of the wagon, where his assistant was lowering the tail-board. It was too late for the Blackshirts to manoeuvre around the obstacle.

  “Halt.”

  They came to a ragged stop, those at the back bunching up on those in front. The order of the march was broken and the three columns fragmented, men spilling onto the pavements, cursing. They all sensed momentum had been lost. There was mocking laughter from those observing nearby.

  “Spoiled your fun have they?”

  “Should know better, all of you, grown men and all.”

  “Lost your way? Should ask a copper, there’s plenty round here. They’ll be only to pleased to help.”

  Eric went up to the delivery men.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Move this thing at once.”

  “Hang on a minute mate. Just dropping off a couple of barrels of beer to this pub. Won’t be two tics.”