by Martin Howe
“You can march round, there’s plenty of room”, said the man standing on the cart as he balanced a barrel precariously on the rim of the wagon. Two constables walked up to see what was going on, but didn’t interfere. The barrel thudded to the ground, landing on a small stained mat, before being rolled to the gaping cellar entrance in the pavement and stood on its end.
The offhand civility of the draymen drained the colour from Eric’s face, his jaw muscles twitched and he clenched his fists. He thought better arguing back. There was a crowd gathering, now was not the place for an altercation.
Reverse if you can,” he called out, “make some room.”
He whispered to a young Blackshirt standing beside him.
“Make a note of the brewery – it’s on the barrels – then have a word with the publican, there’s a good lad. Watch yourself, we’ll meet up later.”
The Blackshirts slowly edged backwards, milling, colliding, turning, ranks dissolving, reforming, amid a cacophony of confused voices. It was several minutes before the cohesion of the columns was restored and under the watchful eyes of the two policemen they wheeled past the stationary cart.
The onlookers on the pavements grew more numerous as they approached Olympia, their demeanour subdued, apprehensive and often disapproving. In among them were supporters of the march whose mood was also mooted and low key, the visible signs of their approbation limited to desultory clapping. In marked contrast the railway bridge at the end of Kensington High Street was lined with raucous demonstrators waving Communist Party and trades union banners. The police had corralled them behind crude wooden barriers at the side of the road away from the main entrance to Olympia. As the marchers approached the bridge a policeman with a loud hailer slung over one shoulder stepped off the kerb and signalled for them to stop.
“Seems the opposition got here early then,” called out a Blackshirt standing behind Tony.
“How much are they paying you?”
Others joined in the jeering.
“Keep it down back there.”
“Bastards,” called out a demonstrator. Then the harracking began.
“Workers against fascism – Mosley out! Workers against fascism – Mosley out!”
The noise was deafening in the narrow street. The policeman took Eric by the arm and led him out of earshot of the marchers. They talked briefly. When they returned Eric was holding the loud hailer and clearly unhappy.
“The police have requested that we do not proceed to Olympia as a group.” His voice was distorted and high pitched. “They are concerned that there may be trouble. Given that we are the advance party and given that we want to co-operate with the forces of law and order.”
There was consternation among the Blackshirts and a number shouted out in frustration at this unwarranted interference in their plan.
“Quieten down…co-operate whenever possible, I have agreed that the first ten files will follow me to the front entrance of Olympia, the rest of you under the command of Arthur Hammond will turn left up ahead there, down Olympia Way, and enter through the Grand Hall entrance. We will then meet up again inside for a briefing. Is that clear?”
The incessant chanting mangled his words and many marchers couldn’t hear what was being said. They crowded forward. Disquiet spread through the ranks, undermining the equanimity of the military body, weakening its defensive unity, fraying tempers, crazing its resolve. Eric was forced, for the continuing benefit of the enterprise, to emphatically repeat his order.
“We’re a disciplined force, let’s not forget that. Our opponents obviously don’t believe in the freedom to say what you want and to go where you want. Let’s not let them stop us from doing exactly what we want. We’re going to Olympia. Later tonight our great leader will tell the British people what we stand for, what we represent. There is nothing they can do to stop that. Minor battles, mere skirmishes do not make a war. Our time will come sooner than they would like. Much sooner.”
As he finished speaking, he swung round to face the demonstrators, snapped to attention and saluted. His right arm a pointed symbol of defiance aimed directly at their heads. There was noisy outrage among the spectators on the bridge. The Blackshirts cheered and began to rally, hastily regrouping into two units.
“You fascist bastards. You make me sick,” screamed a young bespectacled woman who was shaking with rage and trying to force her way under the wooden barrier. She was restrained by two friends as the Blackshirts marched past.
The approach to Olympia was more or less clear of people. Traffic had been diverted and was moving slowly along the Hammersmith Road, and the police were keeping away all pedestrians who did not have business in the hall.
“What a magnificent place,” said the man marching beside Tony as they neared the main entrance of the building. It was only the second time they had spoken.
“That’s the sort of thing I’d like to build given the chance – the architecture for a fascist future, for the state. Powerful and awe-inspiring, built on the grand scale. Just look at those columns in the centre there.”
“Is that what you do then?” asked Tony.
“Student in my second year at Cambridge. Studying architecture. Name’s Albert, Albert Cummings.”
“Mine’s Tony Cox. I come from Blackpool.”
Tony looked afresh at the building towering over them. It reminded him of the ocean liner he had seen the day he had visited the docks at Liverpool. The fresh white paint, the rows of small windows running along the side, the railings, the Union Jack fluttering on its flag-pole and the name Olympia in large block capitals. H.M.S Olympia sailing the seas for fascism, flying the flag for Britain, the “Honourable Mosley’s Ship Olympia” launched in 1934 to bring fascism to a welcoming world and a grateful Empire.
Eric was in a bitter mood when they finally got inside the hall. The police had held the marchers on the pavement outside while they checked with the building management. Everything was behind schedule.
“It’s bloody humiliating. That prig of a police inspector had the cheek to tell me that he needed more than my personal guarantee before he could allow us to proceed. I ask you what sort of bloody word is proceed? Then tells us we have to split up or walk away and wait for Mosley, or someone else in authority. You can see that can’t you, he’d have my bloody guts for gaiters, he would. I fought for my country, I know how to organize a bloody campaign, more than he probably does, jumped up little nobody. Then did you see those people outside? The sooner we get to grips with things the better it strikes me, sort this lot out I can tell you.”
He stopped, clutched his forehead and looked around for somewhere to sit down.
“I get migraines sometimes,” he said quietly, “See that everyone gets positioned round the building, will you. Cover all entrances, then send all the stewards from the main hall to me in about half an hour. Need to run through it all one more time. I may have a bit more intelligence on who we can expect in here by then. I hope to God it’s some of those from the bridge, or even that bloody brewery man. Tony you stick with me, it should be lively. I feel like banging some heads together tonight.”
“Mosley out, Mosley out. Death to Fascism, death to Fascism. Socialism lives, free the workers.”
The chanting was clearly audible in the hall. Tony looked out at the seething, encroaching mass from the first-floor window of the manager’s office, there was an emptiness in the pit of his stomach and his heart was racing. A catch in his breathing accentuated his natural anxiety, a headiness that clouded his thinking and made him nervous. Under siege he discovered he was frightened, but could barely admit it to himself. He knew he wasn’t preternaturally brave and was aware he shouldn’t be there, he wanted to leave yet understood he had no choice but to remain. His father had been a weak man but had gone off to war. He would do the same, his resolve was clear. There was only one way forward, feed on the excitement,
thrive on the fear.
Hundreds of people were now outside, chanting, taunting, jostling with the police. They were being held back from the entrance as BUF party members and supporters streamed in – dinner-suited men, women in evening gowns, army officers, high-ranking dignitaries, so Tony had been told, Lords and Ladies. Bentleys, Humbers, Daimlers, the occasional Rolls Royce drew up, disgorged their passengers and pulled away to cries of “Bloody murderers”, “Fascist bastards”, and “Mosley’s monkeys”. Occasionally some of the demonstrators would break through the police cordon and surge forward, forcing the guests to hurry towards the entrance.
“Looks like a full house tonight, not bad. Shame they’re not all paying,” the hall manager snorted. He was a short plump man wearing a tight khaki-coloured linen suit and was standing beside Tony, smoking a pipe and looking down on the mêlée.
“Can’t say I have much sympathy with your lot, with any of the political parties for that matter if I’m honest, but old Mosley can certainly pull them in. Must say something. Though that bunch out there look like trouble to me. If any of them get into the hall, it could get interesting. Mind you, I see you’ve come pretty mob-handed. Have to keep an eye on ‘em though.”
Tony nodded.
“We know who the troublemakers are, so don’t expect a lot of bother tonight.”
“Not my problem mate, unless you start smashing up the place. Can’t see that myself. You’ll be lucky to get this crowd in their seats by eight o’clock, particularly as you’re using your own stewards, not my usual lads. The hall can accommodate twelve thousand you know, that’s a lot of bums to get on seats.”
“Mosley’s always late anyway. A tactic he uses for raising expectations supposedly. They’ve got a band playing all the old favourites, which’ll keep people happy.”
“Should do the trick for a while, yes.”
The air was heavy with tobacco smoke, a pungent variety Tony didn’t recognize. He needed air. He left the office and walked through to the main hall. It was almost full. The bustle of multiple small movements and the garbled words of myriad conversations filled the vast space with sound, the inconsequential scraping of the pit orchestra sited below the stage barely an undertone. Tony strained to pick up the melody. Rows of chairs had been laid out in the central arena and this was seething with people. Four large searchlights, positioned in the open areas that bordered these seats, pointed at the stage at the far end of the auditorium. The permanent seating was banked up around the perimeter. Tony could see very few empty places. He was uncertain what he was supposed to be doing. Eric had assigned him to one of the roving “Biff squads” and told him to keep his eyes open for trouble, helpfully adding that if there was any he was to pile in and sort it out. This was madness, he knew it, he had never been a fighter. He turned and Eric was beside him.
“Mosley’s here, he’s in the office being briefed. A couple of the other columns ran into trouble getting here so he wants to know our side of it. Usually works it into his speech – threats to freedom, blah di blah. Seems to be limping, sad to say it’s nothing to do with fighting the good fight, more to do with fighting the gentlemen’s fight. Fencing apparently, strained a muscle. Wouldn’t put it past him to say he was injured on the way here tonight. We’ll see. He’ll be out in five minutes or so and that’s when the trouble will really get going. Need to keep your eyes open. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
There was a ragged fanfare. Tony glanced at his watch. It was eight-forty. The audience turned, heads craning. A ten-man Blackshirt honour-guard was slowly goose-stepping down the central aisle, bearing Union Jacks and fascist banners. Sympathizers around the hall were standing and saluting, arms outstretched, as most present looked on intrigued. Sir Oswald Mosley came into view, there was a cheer, and scattered applause, which built in intensity as he moved closer towards the stage. He acknowledged those around him with a slight sideways movement of his head and an effete salute – his right arm raised, slightly crooked at the elbow and the palm of his hand bent backwards – which set him apart. Such a manifest display of confidence in his ability to lead, larded with upper class arrogance and wrapped around with the latent trappings of power elicited a visceral response that was difficult to ignore. Beguiled, Tony raised his arm and saluted out of respect for the man, his position and his supreme dominance. Momentum was building, a virtuous circle of pageantry, symbolism and ideology that inflamed the enthusiasm of the masses present, choreographing their actions and forecasting their responses.
The house lights dimmed. The searchlights burst into life, punching cones of yellow light through the darkness, the dazzling beams sweeping erratically around the hall, before one by one they pin-pointed the marching figures and steadied, incandescent polished leather and burnished metal, flaring. The spectacle possessed a visceral dynamism matched by the excited appreciation of the crowd which, feeding on its own lustful desire for change, built towards an overheated crescendo of adulation.
Attuned to the temper of the moment Mosley reached the front of house and halted, his back to the assembly, while his flag bearing escort divided right and left and marched up the steps onto the stage, the exuberant rhythmic accompaniment to their progress undiminished. They formed up along the apron coming to attention with their banners tilted towards the audience. The vacant rostrum, stage centre, gleamed in the beam of a solitary spotlight. Mosley turned and at that point, the constrained clapping exploded into a babel of wild applause, cheers and wolf whistles. Staring straight ahead he accepted the rapturous acclamation unabashed. Overhead foils of light slashed the gloom as the spotlights broke away from the central drama, weaving crazy reflected patterns across the glass roof and iron rafters of the hall. Refracted rainbow colours burst forth from eruptions of light scarring the eyes of the awed onlookers with ragged glowing stars.
Mosley, the accomplished performer, held the hall in fervent suspension, existence subverted for minutes, until the right time for action arrived. Then brusquely the connection with his audience was severed and Mosley turned and limped after his honour guard, his infirmity now more pronounced. Stepping out of the light into the shadows at the edge of the stage, his absence inverted the jamboree atmosphere allowing the seriousness of the enterprise to impinge on the gathering. This subtle collective shift occurred in the briefest of moments and sober applause greeted his reappearance on the stairs. Discipline restored, the spotlights ended their anarchic dance and focused their intensity on the immaculately composed luminary as he crossed to the rostrum.
There was a staccato burst of cheering as he scanned the audience. He raised his arm in wan salute and it died quickly away. He nodded in the direction of the orchestra. The thin opening notes of the National Anthem were heard before they were drowned out by the rush of the vast audience getting to its feet. Their combined voices, spurred on by an enhanced patriotic fervour and a sense of righteousness, ensured a rousing three-verse rendition of “God Save The King”. Tony mouthed the words. As the music died away, Mosley motioned for quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this meeting, the largest indoor gathering ever held under one roof in Britain, is the culmination of a great national campaign in which audiences in every city of this land have gathered to hear the fascist case…”
“Fascism means murder: Down with Mosley, Fascism means murder: Down with Mosley.”
The hecklers were in the banked tiers of seats to Tony’s right a hundred feet or so from where he was standing. He could see several groups of men and women on their feet, yelling and waving their arms. They were surprisingly loud, the acoustics of the hall working to their advantage, and he could no longer hear what Mosley was saying.
“Get ready. Wait for a signal from the stage. We’ve to deal with the first few by the book.”
Eric was standing behind Tony with four other men he had never met before. They were lean, refined enforcers physically attuned to violence unlike the muscle-b
ound, overweight chucker-outs Tony saw patrolling many Blackpool pubs during the summer season.
“This is my crack squad, only just got here. Had a spot of trouble outside to deal with.”
They nodded at Tony.
“Move around the side and get above them. Don’t worry if the bastards see you. Then wait. I’ll give you the signal.”
On stage Mosley was exclaiming about the freedom of speech and warning the protesters that they would be ejected if they didn’t stop interrupting him.
“Fascism means murder: Down with Mosley, Fascism means murder: Down with Mosley.”
One of the spotlights played across the demonstrators and they were visible to the entire hall. Many of those close by were watching them, ignoring the speech. Tony stood feet above them in one of the narrow gangways between the seats. They didn’t appear to have noticed his approach. He was sweating profusely and the tightening in his stomach made him nauseous. He didn’t think he could act, his motivation seemed purely self-serving, designed to save face rather than coming from some deep-seated commitment to the cause. Did he care enough to turn violent at the drop of a hat, as seemed to be required? He wasn’t sure. The only person he had ever hit was his brother and that had been a justified retaliation. He chewed his lower lip, tasting blood.
“…everyone here has seen that I have been unduly tolerant of your behaviour. Have given you due warning of the consequences of your actions. My patience is exhausted. Stewards will you please remove those people.”
“Go, go”, shouted Eric, waving the squad forward. The protesters, angry committed men and women, turned to face them. People seated nearby struggled to get out of the way, pushing and shoving, faces contorted with effort, largely silent except for their agitated breathing. Tony froze, momentarily incapacitated by the glare from the spotlight and his own fear, before being physically swept into the fray. The imperative of the contact was relentless and unforgiving and his attention focused on a young man with a red scarf around his neck that he had noticed standing at the end of the row of seats.