by Guy Walters
It does not take long for Otto to find his man, because his man is tall, and even when he is sitting down he towers above his fellow diners. Otto walks over to the chipped table and sits down.
‘Hello, Tony,’ says Otto.
Tony is not the man’s real name. Otto knows his real name, but never uses it, not even when they meet in private. For his part, Tony refers to Otto as ‘Stefan’, but unlike Otto, he does not know his contact’s real name. There is no need to know, and neither does Tony wish to know. All Tony knows is that Stefan works for Moscow and, like him, is a loyal Party member. He does not even know that Stefan is an officer of the Narodnyi Kommissariat Vnutrennikh Del – the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, or NKVD. The NKVD has many agents in Britain like Tony, but few are as well placed as him.
‘Stefan,’ says Tony, tilting his head in a slight bow.
They make small talk for a few minutes, throughout the prosaic business of ordering and receiving two plates of ham, eggs and toast.
‘So is it going to happen?’ Otto asks eventually.
‘It looks like it,’ comes the reply. ‘I expect we will come to power in a week, maybe two.’
‘And Mosley’s still promising you the job?’
Tony nods.
‘You will have a lot of power, Tony, a lot of power indeed. You must use it carefully!’
Tony has never seen Otto look so intense.
‘I will use it as you and the Party see fit,’ says Tony.
‘Good,’ says Otto quietly, spooning sugar into a scummy mug of tea.
The two men sit in silence for half a minute, a silence that is broken by Tony as he reaches under the table for a parcel.
‘What’s this?’ asks Otto.
‘A birthday present,’ says Tony.
Otto looks startled, or an approximation of it, because it is very hard to surprise Otto. He shakes the box as if he was a child, putting his ear close to the wrapping paper.
‘A board game!’ says Otto.
‘Well done.’
Otto unpicks the wrapping carefully, methodically, stretching out the anticipation.
‘Monopoly?’ he finally asks. ‘What is Monopoly?’
‘It’s proof,’ says Tony quietly. ‘Proof that capitalism has got so decadent that they’ve turned it into a game even children can play.’
Otto studies the back of the box.
‘Not something we’ll end up seeing in Moscow,’ he says.
Tony takes a sip of tea before speaking.
‘Or here for much longer,’ he says, which makes Otto laugh, wryly.
Chapter One
The Party
April–June 1937
‘WE ARE NOW in a dictatorship,’ said Armstrong.
‘James, you’re drunk,’ said his hostess.
The table, which consisted of many old friends and colleagues, had gone quiet. Armstrong pointed at his wine glass, which was still half full.
‘I assure you, Patricia, I am not drunk. I’m perfectly sober, depressingly sober in fact.’
Patricia glowered at him. She did not like conversation at her dinner parties to steer too close to the rocky shores of politics. The Season, the South of France, sailing – these were Mrs Fallowell’s favoured havens of chitchat. Never mind that there were three MPs at the table, in addition to Ted Frost, the editor of the Daily Sketch, and John Iremonger, the owner of a firm whose mustard could be found in every kitchen cupboard in the land.
‘I’ll say it again,’ said Armstrong. ‘We are now in a dictatorship. And it’s thanks to people like you, Harry, the people who voted for him on Saturday.’
The man whom Armstrong was addressing, the man who was now looking back at him with an open mouth, was his host, Harry Fallowell. Harry had entered Parliament with Armstrong in the ‘khaki election’ of 1918, and the two men had developed a strong friendship as they had jostled their way down to the front benches. Both men had returned from the trenches with a deep belief that society owed the younger generation a massive debt, and that it was their job to ensure that the older generation – the generation that had sent them to die – paid up.
‘You take that back,’ said Harry.
‘I’m sorry, Harry, I won’t. We didn’t all vote for “the Leader”, did we?’
Armstrong looked over at Duncan Ratcliffe, another Conservative MP. To his frustration, Ratcliffe stayed silent. Typical, thought Armstrong, Ratcliffe had always been a man to sit on the fence. It had come as no surprise to anybody that he was an abstainer on that Saturday.
‘I disobeyed your whip,’ said Harry, ‘because I thought – and still do think – that voting against the Emergency Powers Bill would have been an act of gross disservice to this country. Goddammit, James! Can’t you see that Mosley’s what we need?’
‘I dispute that,’ said Armstrong.
‘Hear, hear,’ said Ted Frost.
‘Thanks, Ted,’ said Armstrong. ‘In fact, I wonder how much longer your paper will stay in print? I wonder how much longer any of them will . . .’
‘Oh, come off it, James!’ said Patricia, almost giggling.
‘I’m being serious, Patricia. Men like your husband passed a bill that allows Mosley – amongst other things – to have the press subsumed into the civil service. I give the Sketch another week, maybe two.’
‘He’s right, you know,’ said Frost. ‘We’ve already had a visit from the Ministry for Information. They’ve installed a couple of men on the editorial floor whose job it is to read every news report and opinion piece.’
‘And they’re just going to be reading them, are they?’ asked Armstrong.
‘Thin end of the wedge,’ said Frost. ‘They’ve already objected to our running a piece that told our readers that the Sketch was now being censored.’
‘How did you get that past them?’
Frost knocked back the rest of his drink.
‘Arts pages. First time they’ve been read in months!’
A gentle laugh broke some of the tension.
‘Do you see, Harry?’ said Armstrong. ‘That’s dictatorship. That’s got Hitler and Mussolini written all over it.’
‘Balls,’ said Harry. ‘Complete balls. This country has been going to the dogs ever since the King refused to abdicate. I don’t need to tell you what happened after that.’
‘It’s not balls, Harry,’ said Armstrong. ‘Otherwise why would we all be staying here tonight? Let’s not forget the curfew!’
‘These are small prices to pay,’ said Harry. ‘You only have to walk down any street in any town in Britain to see the scars of chaos. Shop windows smashed, graffiti everywhere, soup kitchens . . . anarchy! In times like these, a firm hand’s what’s needed. Don’t forget, James, it is only temporary.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Armstrong. ‘Come on, Harry, you’ve seen them for yourself. The Blackshirts aren’t about stability and order, they’re a bunch of thugs who happen to have found the right leader. How would you feel if you were Jewish?’
Harry shrugged and lit a cigar.
‘Refu-jews,’ he said nonchalantly, the first wreaths of smoke starting to envelop his head.
‘What was that?’ Armstrong asked.
‘Refu-jews,’ Harry repeated. ‘Someone came up with it at the club. Rather good, I thought, considering that most of them are bloody immigrants. Anyway, if my name was Goldberg, I’d probably feel a lot safer now that there’s firm government in charge.’
Up to this point John Iremonger had stayed silent. However, Harry’s attitude had clearly struck a nerve.
‘For God’s sake, Harry!’ he exclaimed. ‘You know as well as everyone else round this table that they’re in for a rough ride! Last week my general manager received a form asking us to state how many Jews work in our factories, what their names and addresses are, et cetera, et cetera. What the hell’s all that about?’
Harry drew on his cigar.
‘I’m sure it’s for their own protection,’ he said.
&nb
sp; Armstrong shut his eyes before speaking.
‘Did you fill in the form, John?’ he asked.
Iremonger looked around the table. Eyes gazed down at half-finished salmon steaks.
‘Well then,’ said Armstrong, ‘did you or didn’t you?’
Patricia cleared her throat.
‘James,’ she said, placing a heavily jewelled hand on his wrist, ‘John doesn’t have to answer that question, does he? Does he, darling?’
The last part of that was addressed to her husband, who continued smoking.
‘Actually, Patricia,’ said Armstrong, ‘I think he does.’
Iremonger held a shaking glass of burgundy to his mouth and drained half of it.
‘Come on, John!’ Armstrong urged. ‘None of us are informers, are we? We’re old friends. Whatever you say goes no further, isn’t that right?’
‘Of course,’ said Ted, accompanied by murmurs of agreement from the men’s wives and Ratcliffe. Armstrong noticed that their host continued smoking.
‘Harry?’ asked Armstrong.
‘My loyalty has always been to the Crown,’ said Harry, ‘and therefore to His Majesty’s Government.’
A gasp. There really was a gasp, Armstrong noted.
‘Including the all-new His Majesty’s Secret State Police?’ he asked.
Another draw on the cigar.
‘If necessary,’ said Harry.
It was Armstrong’s turn to take a slug of burgundy. This was Harry, he told himself – good old ‘Fare Thee Well’ Fallowell – what in God’s name was happening to him?
‘You are joking,’ said Armstrong. ‘Aren’t you, Harry?’
An impassive expression partially obscured by a defiant cloud of cigar smoke told Armstrong the worst. He shook his head.
‘Christ, Harry – what’s happened to you?’
‘What’s happened to you?’ came the cold reply.
Iremonger threw his napkin forcefully on to his plate.
‘You want to know what I did with that form, Fallowell?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘I threw it in the fucking bin, that’s what. What are you going to do now, eh? Ring the police? Or rather, the secret police? I expect you’ve already got their number.’
Harry looked over at Ted.
‘None of this goes in the Sketch!’ he barked.
‘None of it would be allowed in,’ said Ted, staring witheringly at his host.
Touché, thought Armstrong. He had always liked Ted, had always found him good company. Over the years, they had enjoyed many lunches, and Ted was the only journalist with whom he had allowed himself to be indiscreet.
‘So, Harry, are you going to inform on him?’ asked Armstrong, folding his napkin carefully.
Harry started laughing, a slightly forced attempt.
‘Come on, you two! Stop taking all this so seriously! Of course I wouldn’t inform on John here – that would be absurd. Come on! Let’s eat up and talk of more merry things!’
Armstrong stood up, smoothed down his waistcoat, took one more sip of wine and then looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. The curfew had started two hours ago. He wasn’t allowed to leave, but he desperately wanted to. With no taxis or buses, he would have to walk home. He might get caught, but then so what? What could they do to him? The penalty for breaking the curfew was a £100 fine or three months’ imprisonment. He would refuse to pay a fine, so let them lock him up. What would people say then? It would expose the new law for the absurdity it was.
‘Where are you off to?’ said Harry.
‘Home,’ said Armstrong.
‘But the curfew . . .’ Patricia began.
‘In Harry’s words, balls,’ said Armstrong.
Iremonger stood up as well.
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he said. ‘My driver’s here tonight. Fallowell – tell your man to go and get him.’
‘The curfew,’ Patricia bleated once more.
‘I’d rather be locked up than stay here a minute longer,’ said Iremonger. ‘You coming, James?’
Armstrong nodded.
‘I’m sorry, Patricia,’ he said. ‘I appear to have ruined what should have been a lovely evening. Nevertheless, I’m sure you’ll be able to find plenty of other things to talk about. Sorry to have been such a bore!’
He bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. She smelt of Chanel and a trembling unease. It was only then that it finally sank in. The posters, the Blackshirt marches, the Emergency Powers Act – these were merely the signs, thought Armstrong. What had gone was trust. Mosley had abolished it, and with its abolition, freedom had been crushed.
It was just a ruined dinner party, but in its small way, thought Armstrong, it was a social breakdown.
Armstrong and Iremonger sat in the back of the Rolls-Royce in silence. Both were preoccupied with the conversation they had just left, as well as the risk they were taking in breaking the curfew. Iremonger had promised his driver £50 if he took them, which the man readily accepted, telling him that he’d have done it for free, but seeing as Sir John had offered him all that money, well, who was he to refuse the missus a few baubles? All three men had laughed at that, and Armstrong expressed a secret gratitude that the bulldog spirit was still in evidence.
‘Do you think that bastard Fallowell will really shop me?’ asked Iremonger, offering Armstrong a cigarette.
‘I wish I knew,’ Armstrong replied, shaking his head at the cigarette. ‘Two, three weeks ago I would have said that Harry was the last man to do such a thing.’
‘But it’s monstrous!’
Armstrong nodded and looked out of the window. A huge fascist banner billowed gently under the newly built Constitution Arch at Hyde Park Corner. It was illuminated from below, its redness strikingly bold against the whiteness of the arch and the blackness of the night. Lit up for whom? As there was a curfew, no one could see it. Empty pomp, thought Armstrong. Even when you couldn’t see them they wanted you to know that they were still there.
‘Yes, it is monstrous,’ he said. ‘I really didn’t think this was going to happen. I was naïve, I’m ashamed to admit it.’
‘Come off it, James! We all were. No one could have anticipated all this. I’ve got half a mind to go and tear down that fucking flag back there. You on for it?’
Armstrong smiled.
‘We need to tear down a lot more than flags.’
‘Huh?’
‘We need to destroy the whole bloody thing. It’s not just flags and drums and black shirts. We’ve been invaded, that’s the word, invaded.’
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘And it’s going to get worse,’ said Armstrong, watching the high wall surrounding the gardens of Buckingham Palace speed by. ‘We’re going to hop into bed with Hitler and Mussolini soon, you mark my words. And then where will Europe be? France will fall to fascism – Spain will doubtless do so as well. Soon America will be the only democracy left.’
‘Well, that’s where I’m going.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to push off to Virginia, got some land there.’
‘No!’ Armstrong snapped. ‘No! John, you must not go, you must not leave. We need men like you around. Otherwise we’ll be left with people like Harry and wet blankets like Ratcliffe. You’ve got to do your bit and stay!’
Iremonger exhaled a long jet of smoke.
‘Well?’ asked Armstrong.
‘You’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, perhaps I’ll stay, stick around, “do my bit”, whatever that means. In fact, what does it mean?’
‘It means that I’m going to form an opposition,’ said Armstrong.
‘How? Parliament’s been closed.’
‘No, not that sort of opposition–’
Armstrong was cut off by the sound of a loud ringing approaching rapidly from behind. They turned to see a police car speeding towards them, its blue light flashing frantically.
‘O
h shit,’ said Iremonger, his tone resigned. ‘What should we do?’
‘I think we should do what rich men do in every country such as this.’
‘What do you mean? Bribe them?’
‘Exactly. Offer them twenty quid per head and we’ll be on our way to bed.’
‘In a cell. We’ll never get away with it.’
Ten minutes later, Armstrong and Iremonger were indeed on their way to bed.
‘I don’t know whether I’m more troubled by the curfew,’ said Iremonger, ‘or the fact that the good old British bobby is now corruptible. You owe me thirty quid, by the way.’
Something else had changed, thought Armstrong, reaching for his wallet, something about the policemen’s uniforms. They were wearing Party armbands. That was new. How much longer would bribery last?
It was continuity that kept the Blackshirts in place. That was Armstrong’s opinion, and he was proved right. People still went to work, people still fell in and out of love, the buses were still red, people still ate ham – things were, after all, still British. If anything, the situation was getting a little better, because how indeed could it have got worse? Since Mosley had entered Downing Street, where were the riots? Where were the shortages? Queues had all but disappeared from the high street. If you ignored some of the more excessive elements of the new regime, dismissed them as necessary to ensure stability, then life, some people said, wasn’t so bad.
Some people. For most, and Armstrong was certainly one of these, the air was poisoned. Neither did he shy away from saying so. Anybody who asked him his opinion, and even those who hadn’t – especially those who hadn’t – would get the full force of Armstrong’s argument. After all, he was still an MP and the chief whip of the Conservative Party, Parliament or no Parliament. What were they going to do? he would ask. Lock him up? If they did that, they would have to lock up nearly every MP who wasn’t a fascist, every trade unionist, every ‘suspect’ journalist – the list would be very long. It would be like Germany, he said, and Germany had happened because people had not spoken out, had retreated into a satisfied world of continuity. The Germans had absorbed themselves in those things that reminded them of better times – mostly the countryside – and it was this absorption that made them feel that not much had changed.