The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  “Time to call it a day Jack?”

  “Yeh mate, we’ve shown these Blackshirt bastards. See you on the ground.”

  Shouldering his bag the man started to slither feet first towards Tony.

  “You’d better move,” he said, grinding the fingers of Tony’s left hand beneath his heel.

  “I’m not waiting for anyone.”

  “You’ll bloody wait for me.”

  Tony screamed, as he grabbed the boot and, driven by the intense pain, twisted. The man, caught off balance, toppled from the girder, hanging on by his hands and one foot. The colour drained from his face and he stared wildly through stricken eyes. There were gasps and cries as people clambered from their seats directly below them. The canvas bag slipped from the man’s shoulder and plunged to the ground, where it lay crumpled and untouched between the empty seats.

  “Please gentlemen, be careful. I want no more violence. Come down now.”

  Straining the protestor hauled himself back onto the girder and clung face down to the solid span, shaking. Tony, tears streaming, began to slowly retreat, he could barely grip with his bruised hand and his legs were numb. Alert to danger he stared fixedly at the man’s boots, as his antagonist gingerly began to follow him. There were cheers and applause as they descended, the spotlight tracing their progress. As Tony lowered himself to the ground, he was grasped round the legs and helped onto his feet. It was Eric.

  “Well done lad, well done.”

  Hazy figures rushed to shake his hand, he was slapped on the back, offered cigarettes, he stood there in a daze.

  “Here he comes, get him.”

  A pair of muddy boots dangled before his face. Hands grabbed them and pulled violently. The man resisted, then fell, collapsing in a heap at Tony’s feet. He was mobbed by Blackshirts, beating and kicking him.

  “Stop, he’s mine,” cried Tony as he pulled bodies away, “leave him to me, I’ve got him.”

  The attackers backed off. Their mark was lying curled up on the floor, his hands shielding his head. As the circle around him widened, he looked up and saw Tony.

  “You and me is it?”

  He got up on one knee, rapidly glanced at the malign faces in the crowd around him, wiped his hands on his shirt and then staggered to his feet.

  “I’m all yours.”

  Tony lunged at him, swinging a wide wild punch with his uninjured right hand. The man parried the blow easily with his left arm and then jabbed Tony hard in the face, once then twice. Tony reeled backwards, his legs giving way, blood pouring from his damaged nose and mouth. He stumbled into a steward standing behind him, then fell into the arms of another, who slumped to the ground under the sudden dead weight, cushioning Tony’s fall. His assailant was bodily lifted up and carried struggling from the hall into one of the side corridors. He was set upon by Blackshirts who broke both arms, his nose, three ribs and partially tore off his left ear, before themselves being attacked by a group of communists, who had seen their comrade dragged off, but had been unable to reach him in time to prevent the beating.

  Tony was unconscious for minutes. He came round seated on the floor, leaning against a pillar his head protected by a folded overcoat. Bodies seethed around him, a mess of legs blurring his vision. The noise was deafening; people were talking across each other, shouting, calling for help. It took a while for anyone to notice he had come round.

  “He’s back with us. Any sign of the doctor?”

  Tony felt cold and sick. His world was black and white, colours disconcertingly absent. The sensation of slipping from the girder and falling was real. Reflexively he turned his head to one side and vomited – dry retching convulsions that burned his throat and strained the muscles in the wall of his stomach. There was parting suddenly, a movement away, a perception of clarity. Tony shivered and wrapped his arms tightly around his body. He closed his eyes. The yawning drop was there. A warm hand touched his forehead, another loosened the shirt buttons on his shoulder.

  “Tony? Tony? Can you hear me?”

  Spinning below, rolling into that space, head first.

  “Tony? It’s Emily, Tony? Tony?”

  Emily Carstairs had been on first aid duty all evening and had tended to a procession of the walking wounded – cuts, broken noses, fractured ribs – but Tony was her first unconscious patient. She had watched his climb into the roof and was amused that the “hero of the hour” should be that quiet, good-looking, hung-over boy from the mess room in the Black House. She was mildly taken aback at the pleasure she felt that he now needed her help.

  “Can you hear me, Tony?”

  Emily reached into a black medical bag and took out a bottle of smelling salts. Tony groaned and opened his eyes.

  “How are you? It’s Emily, remember me?”

  She motioned for the stewards guarding them to move back.

  “Can someone see if there is any water? Clean if possible.”

  She held Tony’s hands as he came round.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible,” he mumbled, “I can’t see.”

  He tried to stand, but she held him down firmly by the shoulders.

  “Stay there, there’s no need to move. Doctor Abbott is around here somewhere, he should look you over first. You’ve taken quite a hammering.”

  “I’ll be fine if I can just get going. Eric’ll be needing help.”

  “No, no,” she stated firmly, “No you don’t. Eric can take care of himself. Anyway, the meeting is nearly over. It’s all running way past time but Mosley is building to the grand finale. The worst is behind us, most of the “red agent provocateurs”, to quote dear old Eric, are outside. But not down and out unfortunately. There could be problems on the way back to the Black House. But that needn’t bother you. Foot soldiers wounded in action get special treatment.”

  “What?”

  “…me to look after you, bathe your wounds, strap up your broken limbs, massage bruised egos,” a fleeting smile crossed her impassive face, “mop your fevered brow, that sort of thing.”

  “I want to get back on my feet. March out of here with everyone else.”

  “Come on, you’ve done your bit, no one expects you to.”

  Tony tried again to get up, his eyes searching for a gap in the crowd. He grasped her arm.

  “Steady on, we’ll see.”

  He slumped back against the pillar, strangely relieved, and closed his eyes. There was a commotion in the crush behind them and Eric pushed his way through, breathless.

  “How is he, our hero? Taking it easy, I see. The doctor’ll be here any minute.”

  He then leant in close to Emily.

  “This is a shambles, the police are everywhere. Can I leave him with you? I’ve got things to sort out. If they ask what happened to him, say he fell or something. Haven’t seen them taking anybody in, but you never know.”

  Emily stared at Eric incredulous at being told what to do.

  “Yeah, yeah, fine. I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve been doing this longer than you have, you know.”

  She knelt down and spoke softly to Tony.

  “He gets excited sometimes. And truth is, he doesn’t think that much of women, for all his charm. Not long to wait now, then we can leave.”

  “…take its wealth, organize this mighty heritage. The message of the Blackshirt Movement to the people of Britain is, arise and enter your own realm of opportunity, and be great, happy and wealthy once again!”

  There was scattered cheering and clapping.

  “Thank you for coming to Olympia this evening. I hope our message has struck a chord with some of you. I apologize for the interruptions tonight, which have delayed the proceedings, but I hope you will appreciate the depths to which our opponents will now sink to prevent the great British people from hearing about and reaching their true destiny. Let it b
e a lesson to us all. Thank you and good night.”

  Mosley mopped his brow with a white handkerchief he took from his pocket, then waved both arms, acknowledging the audience, many of whom were now standing. The ovation had grown, there was shouting, whistling and sustained applause. Others were already streaming towards the exits. The National Anthem brought the stragglers to their feet, but didn’t entirely halt the exodus, people were afraid there might be more trouble. Mosley appeared irritated and as the last notes of the anthem died away strode across the stage, surrounded by his bodyguards. He exchanged a few heated words with Eric before disappearing behind a curtain in the wings.

  Tony heaved and sighed before again throwing up. He felt hot and hemmed in. There were people everywhere. A flustered elderly man tripped over his feet and swore at him. He was alone. The stewards had been called away and Emily was searching for the doctor. Tony didn’t know it, but he was obstructing one of the main entranceways into the Grand Hall.

  In the street, demonstrators were barracking the crowd as they left, thrusting leaflets into their hands. The Hammersmith Road was jammed with cars and taxis, crowds milled across the thoroughfare causing greater congestion. The traffic moved fitfully in both directions, the police were concentrating on keeping the communists and fascists apart, but people were streaming out of the many exits of Olympia and they were over-stretched. The demonstrators ejected from the hall by the Blackshirts had congregated in the “Hand and Flower,” opposite Olympia on the corner of the Hammersmith Road and Addison Bridge Place. The police had already moved on a large gang who had been standing on the pavement outside, bottles in hand. They had gathered on the other side of the railway bridge and were waiting to ambush the departing Blackshirts.

  “God, it’s a crush. Can’t find the doctor. Are you alright? Here have some of this, it’s been keeping me going.”

  Emily raised a battered silver hip-flask to Tony’s lips and poured.

  “Cognac, can’t beat it.”

  Tony coughed convulsively, Emily drew back, fearing the worst. He grinned weakly, wanting more. The pain in his limbs was easing and he felt deliciously light-headed.

  “A miracle,” he mumbled, “a French bloody miracle.”

  “I believe in them too,” she said, offering him the flask, before taking a swig herself.

  “Daddy would have slapped my legs for that, you know, he’s strong on taking the Lord’s name and all his good works in vain.”

  She giggled to herself as she took another sip.

  “He’s a vicar, the right reverend A.W.B. Carstairs, heard of him? You should have. You read the “Blackshirt”, well he writes their weekly morality column. You know the sort of thing: “Why Fascists are Christian?” “Fascist faith or communist atheism?” It’s all good stuff. Try to keep it quiet though, thugs like Eric never let up once they find out about the connection. Don’t know why I’m telling you really. But I don’t expect you’ll remember much of this evening by the look of you. Bloody hell.”

  She clutched her ankle.

  “Watch where you’re going.”

  A disheveled man in a dinner jacket apologized curtly, then muttered, “Drunks, disgusting, blocking the exit.”

  Emily stuck her tongue out at him and then nudged Tony.

  “Do you think you can move? We’re in the way here.”

  He nodded.

  “After one more sip I’ll be fighting fit.”

  The hall was almost empty, the air thin and bruised. House lights feebly illuminated the cleaners who were sweeping up between the long rows of seats. A scattering of Blackshirts manned the exits, the rest gathered in the basement corridors ahead of the march back to the Black House. Oswald Mosley and key party dignitaries had already left in his black Humber escorted by one of the armoured vans, packed with bodyguards. The official plan was for the main force of Fascists to depart through a number of adjacent exits, hopefully dividing and confusing their opponents. The “I” squad was to leave by a side exit off the Hammersmith Road and retrace the route along Kensington High Street they had taken to Olympia earlier in the day. Tony was determined to accompany them. Emily had helped him to his feet and he had stood rather uncertainly, holding her round the shoulders for several minutes before limping off down the ramp.

  “If you go with them I’m coming with you, after all I’m your nurse and I outrank you, so I can do what I like.”

  Tony wasn’t the only one injured, a man had broken his arm and was carrying it in a crude sling lashed across his chest, others were cut and bruised, but he was the celebrity.

  “Well done, mate.”

  “Bloody brave going up there, I couldn’t have done that, no head for heights.”

  “We took care of that bastard that was up there with you, he’ll be limping home.”

  A bantering jollity temporarily bolstered the column’s friable morale. Tony smiled.

  “Here let me shake your hand, well done.”

  Everyone was tired, their faces sweat-streaked and grimy, hair ruffled, shirts and trousers ripped, torn and misshapen, shoes scuffed.

  “What a good scrap that was, a few pints inside me and I’ll sleep well tonight.”

  “Could do without the bloody walk back, how did those lucky sods get onto the vans?”

  “Seems there’s quite a few of the bastards hanging around outside. You were on the door earlier, see anything?”

  “Not a lot, but I was at the rear entrance, where there wasn’t much trouble. There’s plenty of police out front though. Dick, over here had a good look and said they were pretty mob-handed there. That’s the way we’re going out.”

  “Where were you hiding then? Lazy …”

  “Give over, you’ll give a soldier a bad name. I was in there with the best of you. Look, listen to this: we was near the front of the hall, we had this right little madam. You know you have to be bit careful with the ladies, but this one had a bloody hat pin this long, no kidding. Old Reggie took it straight in the backside. You can laugh, its true. Never heard anybody squeal so loud in my life. Sticking pigs out in India had nothing on this. Took four of us to get her out and that was after she gave me this,” he pointed proudly to a ruddy-black bruise around a half-closed eye, “smashed me right across the side of me face she did. I tell you keep away from her if she’s waiting outside. Got on a red top, brown skirt. Oh yeah and curly red hair. Can’t miss her.”

  Tony was suddenly grasped round the chest from behind and squeezed firmly.

  “Watch my …”

  It was Eric.

  “We love him, don’t we lads? He’s a real hero. Good stuff Tony. You’ve done yourself no end of good with your monkey exploits. I’ll set you up with a few drinks when we get back. And what a man we have here lads. Miss Carstairs tells me you’re marching with us.”

  Tony nodded, embarrassed to be the centre of attention. Eric pulled him aside and said quietly, “Mosley was very impressed with what you did. Asked me who you were. I, of course, told him you were a good friend of mine. Excellent recruit, been doing sterling work up in Lancashire, potential to go far, you know all the usual baloney. He seemed to buy it. Wants to meet you before you go back up North.”

  Eric could barely contain his excitement and rocked animatedly back and forth.

  “It couldn’t be better,” he mumbled to himself. Then taking Tony forcefully by the shoulder he walked him into the shadow of one of the barred doorways. They were out of earshot of the squad.

  “Look,” he glanced round, “there’s bound to be a comeback after this shambles. Your little escapade gives me a chance to get out from under it all.”

  He nudged Tony.

  “You understand me, don’t you?”

  Tony wasn’t sure he did and looked on blankly. Eric turned aside in exasperation.

  “You’ve been knocked around a bit, I suppose, but come on Tony
, all you have to do when you meet the great man is mention me. Puff up our actions today, with just a touch of humility of course, but make damn sure he thinks we were the ones who saved him from an even greater disaster, understand?”

  “Disaster?”

  “Oh Tony, pay attention, will you. Lots of people saw the hammering we gave the commies and many won’t like it. And you’ve got to give it to the bastards, they were pretty well organized. Never seen them like this before and it’s not finished yet. Listen, it’ll be all over the papers, mark my words – the stinking gutter press will not miss a chance like this. Probably find we laid into one of their reporters or photographers or someone. It’ll be the usual story, together with photos, all across the front page. Plus there were at least a couple of MPs poking their noses in. God knows what they’ll be saying and where. Questions raised in the House, that sort of thing. All calculated to get right up Sir Oswald’s nose. I tell you, there’ll be hell to pay. This was supposed to have been the crowning moment of the campaign, finally taking our message to the masses to show how politically respectable we are. I think it will be seen very differently. I’ve invested a lot in this and I don’t want to go down just yet, so make sure you do your bit to help your old mate Eric. Right?”

  Tony nodded. He was feeling exhausted, his head hurt and his body ached. He didn’t want to hear what Eric had to say, or what anyone else had to say for that matter. He needed to sleep.

  “Don’t worry,” he said and smiled reassuringly, “I won’t let you down Eric. Anyway, I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think.”

  Eric patted him on the back.

  “Don’t bank on it, you’ve not been around the court of King Oswald like I have, anyway thanks. I’m sure you’ll do your best. Don’t mention this little chat to anyone else, will you? That’s a good lad.”

  Emily smiled at them as they returned arm in arm.

  “What are you two so pleased about?”

  “Guess who’s been summoned to meet our leader then, and it’s not me?”

  “Tony, that’s wonderful.”