The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “I told you, didn’t I? Derring-do will always see you through, especially in the dear old BUF. Congratulations. Now, let me guess?”

  She leaned her head on one side put a finger to her lips and looked directly at Eric.

  “Your old friend here took you aside and told you to put in a good word about him in case the Biff Squad gets itself biffed for messing up today. Am I right, Eric?”

  “When are you ever wrong, dearest. A boy’s got to look after himself, you know that only too well.”

  “Oh, I do. Wouldn’t want to come a cropper, when one is this close to the top, would one?”

  Shrugging his shoulders Eric leaned closer to Tony and said in a stage whisper, “Take no notice of her, she’s just bitter and twisted and jealous of my success. It’s not really very becoming in a lady.”

  Emily frowned.

  “Give over, will you.”

  Turning to Tony she said coquettishly, “Eric is right, you will put in a good word for me too, won’t you Tony? Tell Sir Oswald how I nursed you through thick and thin, restored you to full health so that you could return to fight the good fight whenever the call is made, whenever the trumpets blare. I know I am but a mere woman, but I did my duty. Stood resolutely with the best of them…l …”

  “He’ll have you first Lady of his Bedchamber if you go on. The state Tony’s in, he’ll probably repeat every word and then God knows, look.”

  Laughing he pointed at Tony.

  “…we’ve lost him way back. Take no notice of her.”

  “Take no notice of him, rather. “Lady of the Bedchamber”, indeed? There are worse things to be.”

  “Oh I see, like that is it.”

  Tony was confused, he’d stopped paying attention and was hazily watching the Blackshirts gather in the corridor in front of him, ready to take the salute before marching out of the building.

  “Enough of this it’s time to go. Tony, come on. Are you sure you are up to this?”

  Tony started on hearing his name and nodded.

  “Never felt better.”

  “Liar.”

  Jeers and catcalls met the Blackshirts as they emerged from the Grand Hall onto Olympia Way. They began to form up in military order in the narrow street sandwiched between the towering outer wall of Olympia and a high mesh fence that ran along the railway line. The underground station opposite was shuttered and in darkness. There was little light. The moon, that earlier in the evening had irradiated the hall, was now hidden by clouds and the only functioning street lighting was the gas lamps on the Hammersmith Road. A volley of stones ricocheted off the brickwork and bounced across the cobbles – it was too dark to clearly make out where the missiles were coming from. A young Blackshirt stumbled, clutching his head, blood flowing through his fingers. The column started to break up, nerves frayed by the uncertainty, people fretful and afraid.

  “This is the last sodding thing we need.”

  “Christ, that was close, did you see where that came from?”

  “Think they’re on the other side of the railway, the bastards.”

  “Oh no, look at that lot. There must be hundreds of them. Sir, have you seen what’s coming up behind us?”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Let’s leg it.”

  The Fascists were lined up, facing the Hammersmith Road, where they knew they would meet opposition, they had not expected to be outflanked. But a large number of Communist demonstrators had been deployed in the streets at the back of Olympia – Blythe Road, Beachford Terrace Road and Macliser Road – to cut off any Blackshirts who tried to leave that way. They had already surprised Oswald Mosley and his entourage, screaming abuse as his convoy sped away, but after that it had gone quiet. Tipped off that the Blackshirts were massing in Olympia Way, they had gathered out of sight in Sinclair Road. On a signal they marched in silence round the corner of the exhibition hall and came up behind their adversaries. Inconspicuous in the gloomy street between the soaring brick buildings they were about a hundred yards from the rear of the fascist column before they were spotted. There was a yell, high-pitched, almost a squeal, and a tremor ran through the Blackshirt lines. Discipline collapsed – men vainly pointed as others faced their attackers, anxiously determined, their faces grim masks, ranks splintered, individuals scattering to the sides of the road, backing away, colliding with those behind them – seeding confusion. There was much pushing and shoving. Hearing the warring cries, Eric ordered the four “I” squads, who were in the vanguard, to deploy to the tail end of the column.

  “We’ll hold the bastards while the rest of you get up to the Hammersmith Road, it’s too bloody dark and narrow here for a serious set-too. Mason take charge. Wait for us on the bridge.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eric then pulled a rubber cosh from his belt and raced along beside the railings, following his squad. Tony was about to join them, when Emily grabbed his arm.

  “Tony for God’s sake, you’re in no fit state. You’ve done enough today. Come on.”

  The column edged forward, making scrappy progress, the random nature of the bombardment and the imminent threat of attack agitating their cohesiveness and weakening solidarity between the ranks. Men inured to violence and indifferent to the consequences of their actions sensed the danger and the lengthening odds. Their hardened sensibilities were incapable of completely controlling their anxiety. Stones and bricks rained down, bloodying heads and bruising limbs.

  Blocking the street in a line of men, two deep, Eric and his squad squared off against the communists. He was agitated and angry, snarling his words.

  “Come on, you bastards, what are you waiting for?”

  The jeering and chanting continued, but no one moved.

  “Come on, what are you afraid of? Don’t you like the odds, eh?”

  “Fascist thugs, Fascist thugs.”

  “Shut up, for fuck’s sake shut up. Yes I’m looking at you. What are you smiling at? You think it’s funny do you?”

  Eric sprinted forward and coshed a middle-aged man, wearing an open necked shirt and a beret, who appeared to be one of their leaders. He then retreated gesticulating violently.

  “Bastard, that’ll teach you to grin at me.”

  The man fell to his knees clutching his head. There was a groan from the crowd.

  “Anybody else want a taste?”

  He raised his cosh and pointed it at the kneeling man, whose white shirt was darkening at the shoulders.

  “Or are you all just a bunch of sniveling invalids. You make me …”

  The words were drowned out by a deafening roar from the crowd, which surged forward, overwhelming Eric, who disappeared under a mass of lunging bodies. Without hesitation his fellow Blackshirts piled into the fight, screaming and lashing out indiscriminately.

  The head of the retreating column had reached the Hammersmith Road, and was being funneled through a narrow gap between the police lines. The confused disturbance behind them in Olympia Way was a frenetic audible presence and three mounted policemen, with batons raised, pushed their way through the marchers and clattered across the cobbles towards the commotion, their horses’ iron-shod hooves sparking. Constables followed on foot, their shrill whistles piercing the air. Facing the marchers on the opposite side of the main road was a noisy crowd of demonstrators who had gathered again outside the “Hand and Flower” public house. Up ahead, others blocked the road across the railway bridge.

  “It’s an ambush, we’re bloody trapped,” Tony muttered to Emily, “And the police are running away from it, down to where we’ve come from.”

  Emily moved close to him and tightly squeezed his hand. He looked down at her and smiled.

  “Stick with me, you’ll be alright. There are lots of us.”

  The
ragged column had come to a halt, the apprehensive Blackshirts uncertain of the threat they faced. Their nervousness was infectious, indecision spread insidiously through the lines. The Hammersmith Road was momentarily quiet before a barrage of abuse shattered the calm. The decision to move was taken and the command to “quick march” given, but heard by very few. Order disintegrated. Individuals moved forward, others remained standing, looking around, alert to danger. Challenged on all sides the cohesiveness of the marchers gave way as waves of attackers broke against them. The tumult was deafening. Tony was pushed violently in the back and stumbled, painfully twisting a muscle in his knee. Turning he saw Emily tripping a lunging man, who fell heavily to the ground. She kicked him between the legs and he rolled, howling in agony, beneath the feet of a wrestling couple, bringing them crashing to the pavement. Tony pushed away their writhing bodies and staggered upright, only to be grabbed round the neck. Short of breath from his fall, he couldn’t breathe. He clawed helplessly at the hard sinews of the man’s arm, sweat flooded his stinging eyes, blinding him. His feet left the ground and he was enveloped in a harsh suffocating cloud of bitter Virginia tobacco. The bulging veins in his temples quivered. Stretching artfully, searching for the ground, he passed out. There was a scream nearby, an animal bellow, a nightmare’s prelude. Falling, he could breathe again.

  Tony was sitting on the road, his right leg twisted beneath him. It was raining. Heavy droplets smacked onto the ground beside him and spotted his face and arms. A fine spray, reminiscent of the sea mists swirling across the promenade at home, intermingled with the downpour. The rain would clear the air, there would be brilliant views of the ocean. He would walk out to where the breakers crashed onto the sand, far away from the day-trippers, and watch the terns. They would be fishing at this time of year, to feed their young. Soaring and arcing through the air, then plunging downwards like a spear, shearing the surface, before rising again, shedding water, a rebirth fuelled by the dying. And so it would go on. Tony lay down, he wanted to curl up and sleep, but something was sticking into his back.

  “Tony, Tony, for Christ’s sake, Tony.”

  It was Emily’s voice, he felt her hands in his, tugging.

  “Come on Tony, come on, get up, you must get up.”

  He heard the yelling and moaning. Could see the milling legs, behind the crouching figure of Emily, who glanced anxiously above his head, then pleadingly at him.

  “Now Tony, now. I mean it now.”

  Pushing himself up from the tacky tarmac with one hand – as she pulled him with the other – he stumbled to his feet and looked round. Her fear was sobering. They were caught in the middle of the mélée, the violent grappling spurred by undimmed anger and hatred. Tony saw he had been leaning against the legs of a stockily built man – the one who had grabbed him round the throat – who was standing immobile, clutching the right side of his face and whimpering. Blood ran freely from his damaged eyes, through fingers, over lacerated cheeks and into his overflowing mouth, from where it dripped onto the ground in heavy shining globules. His fractured, laboured, breathing sprayed a fine mist of blood and saliva into the air, which shimmered in the orange glow from a nearby gas lamp, crowning his bowed head with a sulphureous halo.

  “Come on Tony, let’s get away.”

  Tony held back, grasping her hand.

  “What happened? Why is he just standing there?”

  “Tony, please.”

  She tugged on his arm.

  “He was choking you, trying to kill you so I scratched his face. Come on, before he comes round, he didn’t get a good look at me, come on.”

  Tony pulled himself free, thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out Eric’s knuckleduster. He punched the blinded man in the stomach and watched as he subsided, without a sound, onto his knees. Then turned and hit another man, who was struggling with a Blackshirt against the wall of the “Hand and Flower”, hard in the midriff. He felt immensely powerful.

  “You shouldn’t have done that Tony, come on, please, there are too many of them, we don’t want to get arrested.”

  Head down she pushed him through the swarming mob of swinging, lunging figures, and down a dark side street that ran alongside the railway. It was calm and much quieter.

  “There was no need to hit him Tony, I think I took his eye out,” she stifled a sob, “I didn’t mean too, but it felt like it. Let’s go. I’ve had enough.”

  “Don’t worry about him, he deserved it. Come on, you saved my life, I owe you.”

  He embraced her and she put her arms around his waist and looked up at him.

  “You’re right I suppose, but it was horrible, it just sort of gave way. There was nothing there.”

  “Forget it. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think. Anyway we won’t be around to find out.”

  Tony hugged her again. Elated and still feeling strangely invincible, he knew he could do anything. He stared down at Emily, her face barely visible, and it came to him that he had no idea what she looked like. In the dim light he could make out a centre parting in her, he supposed, dark hair. She must have brown eyes, he thought, although there was no way he could tell for certain. He bent forward to kiss her. Their lips had barely touched when there was a loud yell from the direction of the Hammersmith Road. They were instantly alert.

  “Over here. They’re somewhere down there, they went this way.”

  Caught in the hazy glow of a streetlamp, Tony and Emily could see a man pointing in their direction. He was standing close to a group who were squatting on the ground beside a hunched body. Behind them the fighting appeared sporadic, the violence diminished, scuffling cartoon figures casting giant shadows on the wall of the public house. A mounted policeman galloped past, clattering onto the bridge, scattering Blackshirts and communists.

  “Quick,” Tony whispered, “I don’t think they’ve seen us.”

  Holding hands they ran further along the street away from the lights on the main road. On one side there were high iron railings and a row of sycamore trees facing the railway cutting and on the other a terrace of early Victorian town houses, three stories high, all in darkness, the gates to their basements securely padlocked. They had covered only a few yards before they realized to their horror that the road was a dead-end. A block of flats marked the end of the terrace. There was a small courtyard in front, with a car parked in it, surrounded by a low fence. Tony tried the car door but it was locked.

  “Bugger.”

  “I think there was an alley back there on the right, let’s go there.”

  As they retraced their steps they could see their pursuers walking cautiously in their direction. It was obvious they were uncertain about what to expect. Tony and Emily found the passage and hurried down it, hoping it would lead into a neighbouring street and allow them to escape. It was unlit and they could only see a few feet in front of them.

  “Damn.”

  “What’s the matter? Keep your voice down, they can’t be far behind.”

  “Thanks a lot. I’ve grazed my ankle on a cart or something lying in the middle of the bloody road.”

  “Here hold my hand. I’m following the wall. It seems to curve round behind the terrace. Let’s hope it goes somewhere.”

  “These doors, they must be workshops or something. Ugh what’s that? It feels disgusting.”

  They crept slowly forward. The road was unpaved and deeply rutted and their feet scuffled noisely in the dried mud and gravel heaped along the verge. Whispered voices could be heard at the top of the alley-way. Emily and Tony froze. Agitated they held their breath, but were soon forced to exhale.

  “Shhhhh, they’ll hear us.”

  “I know, come on.”

  They stumbled further along the track. On the opposite side they could make out the block shapes of a number of small cottages. In one of the upstairs windows a faint light was visible through a chink in a cur
tain. Above them towered the black silhouette of large factory or warehouse clearly picked out against the blue-black of the night sky. The still air was humid and smelt of mould and decay. The wall they were following was covered in a dense cascade of ivy, which scratched their faces and bare arms, and forced them out into the middle of the lane. They started as a small animal scurried away.

  “Perhaps they’ve missed us and given up.”

  “Maybe. Wait here, I can’t see a thing up ahead. I’ll go and check.”

  Tony disappeared into the gloom, Emily heard him scrabbling his way forward. He returned a few minutes later.

  “It seems to be a dead-end too, can you believe it, a dead-end,” he sighed heavily, “the wall runs right up to the houses, there’s not even a gate.”

  “Couldn’t we try the house with the light, they might let us in.”

  “Keep your voice down. We’d be lucky, they won’t open up at this time of night, not if they heard all the trouble. No, we’ll just have to hide in that doorway we passed and hope they go away.”

  The entry was set slightly back from the alley and one corner was overhung with ivy. Emily slid behind it, shuddering as she brushed cobwebs from her face and hair. Tony stood in front of her, slipping Eric’s knuckleduster agitatedly from one set of fingers to the other. Emily grasped him round the waist and pulled him tightly into the recess.

  “I feel safer now,” she murmured.

  Minutes passed in silence. Their breathing eased and they began to calm down. Emily gently pinched Tony, once, then twice. He reached back and did the same to her. She squirmed.

  “What a hero,” she whispered, “all the girls will be after you now.”

  Her breath felt warm on his cheek, his skin tingled, sensitive to every touch, his body tensed then relaxed.

  “Just remember all I’ve done for you today. We’re comrades in arms, don’t you forget, I’m first in the queue.”

  Tony smiled, the idea of a woman, let alone women, lining up for him seemed faintly ridiculous. He half turned towards her and was about to promise, “he wouldn’t forget,” when they heard voices and movement.