by Guy Walters
Mosley’s measures were enforced almost immediately. He announced a nationwide curfew; the end of the right of assembly; the formation of a new secret police force – His Majesty’s Secret State Police, HMSSP – to combat ‘anti-patriotic’ activities and to take over the work of M15, which was secretly made defunct; greater powers for the armed forces; the introduction of identity papers; and a ban on firearms. The press was to be taken over by the state, and absorbed into the civil service. All these measures, Mosley said to the nation in his broadcast on Sunday morning, were only temporary, ‘for the good of us all’.
During the next week, the posters started to appear, giant portraits of Mosley in his Blackshirt uniform that read, ‘The Leader – For the Good of Us All’. It was these posters, Armstrong claimed, that were the first manifestations of dictatorship, a parading of the cult of personality rather than policy.
* * *
Armstrong lunged forward, the point of his sabre thrusting straight towards his opponent’s heart. But the other man was too quick and brushed Armstrong’s blade upwards, almost knocking it out of his hand. Armstrong stepped back, ready for his opponent’s reply, watching the other man closely, trying to second-guess his next move. The sound of his own breathing was magnified by the mask, reminding him briefly of the sensation of wearing a gas mask.
The other man was devastatingly fast, and before Armstrong could flinch out of the way, he felt the sharp thud of steel against his solar plexus.
‘Hit!’ cried a voice.
Damn, thought Armstrong, damn. He knew he would never win, but he fancied that he might have taken at least more than his usual one bout off his opponent. The two men removed their masks simultaneously.
‘You’re improving!’ said the other man, panting slightly.
‘Oh I don’t know about that,’ Armstrong replied. ‘I’m getting a little slow.’
‘We all are – all the fun of hitting one’s forties!’
Armstrong could never have wished for a better friend than Alec Scott. Like Armstrong, he had been a captain in the 8th Gurkha Rifles, and had served with distinction during the war, winning a Military Cross, an award that Armstrong himself held in addition to his Distinguished Service Order. Pleasantly burdened by a useful inheritance, Alec now spent much of his time fencing, his love for which Armstrong believed was stronger than that for his wife Anne, or even for Antony and Nigel, his twin sons. Alec’s skill with the sabre had earned him a place in the Olympic team that had visited Berlin last year, and Alec had narrowly missed out on a bronze medal.
Although Armstrong was by no means as proficient a swordsman, he did not disgrace himself in his monthly duels with his old friend. His aim on each occasion was to win at least one bout, which normally kept Alec on his guard. Although Armstrong had expressed some dissatisfaction with his performance that day, secretly he was glad that he was maintaining his level against a far superior opponent, especially as his mind was as far from the piste as it could have been.
‘Steam room?’ Armstrong suggested.
‘Why not,’ said Alec. ‘And then lunch on me?’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere without too many Blackshirts. The Mirabelle?’
‘In that case it’s definitely on you.’
Armstrong was glad to find the steam room empty. The two men sat next to each other on a bench, letting the hot water vapour seep into their pores.
‘You know, Mosley’s not a bad fencer,’ said Alec.
‘I’d heard,’ said Armstrong.
‘He was runner-up with the épée in the British championships a while back. I’d love to have a crack at him!’
‘Listen, Alec, I’ve got something important I need to talk to you about.’
‘Good heavens, James,’ said Alec. ‘You’re not getting all ginger beer on me, are you?’
Armstrong laughed gently.
‘No – let me assure you that if I was like that, you’d be the last person I’d pick.’
Alec narrowed his eyes.
‘I can’t work out if that’s an insult.’
‘Don’t worry, it is.’
Alec leaned forward.
‘So, what do you want to talk about?’
Armstrong took a deep breath.
‘I need your help, Alec, need you to help me do something vitally important.’
‘Good God, man – anything. You name it.’
‘I want to get rid of Mosley.’
‘What?’
Armstrong looked round the room before repeating, ‘I want to get rid of Mosley.’
‘We all want that, old chap, but how? The man’s there perfectly legally.’
‘So is Hitler, Alec, so is Mussolini. That’s part of the problem. That’s why what I have in mind is somewhat extra-legal, if you will.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m intending to form a movement,’ said Armstrong, his voice low, ‘a resistance movement, if you like, dedicated to removing the fascists. I’m not going to sit by and watch this country go the way of Italy and Germany. What’s happening now is just the beginning, I’m sure of it. We’ve got to stop it, Alec, before Mosley sinks his teeth deeper into the very fabric of society.’
‘But think of what you’re up against! The army, the police, the secret police – the whole bloody lot!’
‘I know there are elements in the army who think that Mosley’s one of them,’ said Armstrong, ‘and he’s bribed them with vast new budgets, but there are many who are not convinced, Alec, good men who can help us.’
‘Who?’
‘Well, I have several names in mind, but I was rather hoping you would be able to rustle up a few more.’
‘What?’
‘That’s right, I need you to help me draw up a list. You’ve kept up a lot of your contacts in the army, and Anne’s family are all navy, so I’m also expecting you to know a few reliable sailors.’
‘Even if we did have a list of names, what then? What would you have them do? Run around blowing up bridges, that sort of thing?’
‘Nothing quite so amateur, Alec,’ Armstrong replied. ‘These men will go into action when Mosley is removed, seizing radio stations, train stations, even members of the secret police.’
‘But how are you going to actually remove Mosley?’
Armstrong looked straight at Alec.
‘Jesus, man,’ said Alec, ‘you’re not serious.’
‘I am,’ said Armstrong. ‘And I’ll do it myself if necessary. But we can’t do it until we are sure that we can replace the Blackshirts—’
Armstrong broke off with the arrival of another man in the steam room. It was none other than Harry Fallowell.
‘Hello there, Harry,’ said Armstrong. ‘Pleasant surprise.’
But Harry didn’t reply, and sat down at the other end of the room, his stomach folding over the top of his towel. Had he heard what they were saying? Unlikely – the noise of the steam was too loud, and besides, they had been speaking quietly. After an uneasy minute, Armstrong and Alec got up and walked past him.
‘Hang on!’ said Harry.
‘What?’ said Armstrong, his tone mildly exasperated.
‘I think you should know, Armstrong, that as of yesterday I’ve joined the Blackshirts. And that you’d better watch your step. I only tell you this as a courtesy.’
Armstrong calmly wiped some sweat off his face. This was certainly not a surprise.
‘So you weren’t joking at dinner the other night, were you?’
Harry slowly shook his head.
‘Well, I’ll tell you this as a courtesy,’ said Armstrong. ‘You can stick your black shirt up your arse. Goodbye, Harry.’
For the next forty-eight hours, Armstrong and Alec worked steadily in Armstrong’s flat. As they drew up lists of potential members and targets, it never ceased to amaze them that what they were doing was nothing less than planning a coup. It seemed, said Alec, a little continental, but nevertheless, there they were assigning their old friend Colon
el Bob Simmons the task of seizing Crewe Junction. Brigadier Michael Kintore was to use his Highlanders to storm the Blackshirt headquarters in Edinburgh, as well as to take the offices of the State Broadcasting Corporation. Lieutenant-Colonel Martin Cavendish would take his battalion of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry into York and intern every Blackshirt under the stands of the racecourse.
Two scalps they desperately needed were those of Major-General Charles Clifford, the head of the Signals Corps, who would be able to transmit any orders over the army’s radio network to the fellow conspirators, and General Sir Edward Galwey, the chief of all the armed forces in London and the south-east of England, whom Armstrong wished to recruit as caretaker leader of an interim martial government before the restoration of democracy. Galwey could also be relied upon to seize control in the capital in the event of a successful assassination. Armstrong knew both men well, and was certain that they would be more than willing to help oust Mosley. It was like a game, he thought, a hypothetical situation cooked up for the amusement of friends, but as the plan took shape, it developed an air of serious reality.
After two nights they had a detailed outline, along with a cipher and a list of code-words that they would issue to those on the list. However, the plan lacked two important elements. It needed a trigger, said Armstrong, an event that would set it into action. Secondly, they needed to contact those who were to be involved. Without them, it was, after all, still only a hypothesis. The transition from a plan on paper to something that actually existed was the beginning of risk, the beginning of a process that Armstrong knew could lead them to the gallows. They took the decision quickly, but they did not take it lightly. There was no other way to deal with Mosley, a man who saw suppression and violence as legitimate tools of government. There were too many stories now similar to that told by Mrs Jones. It would not be long before public noticeboards announced the names of those who were about to be executed – that was happening in Germany, and if Mosley remained, then it would surely happen here.
Armstrong did not know whether his telephone was tapped, but he assumed it was. However, he did know that his post was being opened, because he had sent himself a letter from a fictitious relative, into which he had placed a hair from his own head, a hair that was no longer there when he opened the letter two days later. At first he was worried that they were already on to him, that perhaps Fallowell had told the HMSSP that his parliamentary colleague was in some way suspect. It was only when he asked another MP to try the same trick that he realised they were censoring the post of all MPs, as well as, no doubt, that of trade unionists and journalists.
Armstrong and Alec would have to make contact the hard way, by actually visiting those on the list. Alec suggested calling them from phone boxes, but Armstrong said they had no way of knowing whether the phones at the other end were tapped. Visiting would be time-consuming, but it would be safer. Besides, a trip around the country would enable Armstrong to establish the tightness of Mosley’s grip, and whether the air was as poisonous in Manchester or Liverpool as it was in London and in his own constituency.
* * *
Armstrong first suspected he was being followed as he was waiting for a train at Bristol Temple Meads station a week later. Having finished in the West Country, he was now heading towards Cardiff and Swansea. He had met five former comrades, all of whom were still serving in the army, and were more than willing to help. ‘Just give us the word,’ they had said, and Armstrong had promised he would keep them informed with a series of coded letters and postcards. Crucially, both Galwey and Clifford had agreed to help, and were already drawing up plans that would dovetail with those made by Armstrong and Alec. Meanwhile, Alec himself was working his way through the Midlands and the east of the country.
He spotted them as he was buying a newspaper at a kiosk. There were two of them, both wearing ill-fitting suits and snap-brim hats and loitering next to a pillar over to his left. They looked away as soon as he noticed them, their heads darting back into their newspapers with a rapidity that suggested something more than a mere polite reluctance to hold a stranger’s gaze.
‘I’m sorry, squire, there ain’t no Times today.’
‘What?’ asked Armstrong. ‘You can’t have sold out already.’
The newsagent took a drag on a filthy squib that passed for a hand-rolled cigarette.
‘Not sold out, never got it.’
‘Well then, how about the Daily Sketch?’
Another drag, and then a slow shake of the head.
‘No Times, no Sketch, no Post, no Chronicle, no Telegraph,’ he said. ‘But what I can offer you is either Action, or The Blackshirt. They say it’s distribution problems.’
‘I’ll bet. All right, I’ll take both.’
Armstrong dug into his pocket for some change, keeping his anger in check for the benefit of the two loiterers. Action and The Blackshirt were the Party’s newspapers, now elevated to the only newspapers in the land. His prediction at dinner a few weeks earlier had been spot-on.
He decided to confirm his suspicions about the two men by going for a walk. He looked at his watch – his train was not due for another fifteen minutes. He strode purposefully towards the ticket hall. As he approached its wooden and glass doors, he could see the reflections of the pair as they followed him. So he was right, a fact that sent his heart racing. Why were they shadowing him? What could they know? Surely none of his old comrades could be one of them, that was impossible. The image of Fallowell and his cigar kept running through his brain. If Fallowell could turn fascist, then anybody could. Perhaps they were following him as a matter of routine, spying on everybody they regarded as ‘the enemy’, even if their opposition had not been manifested. That thought gave Armstrong a little more hope, an ironic hope.
How long had they been following him? Since Plymouth? Since Truro? Armstrong walked through the ticket hall and left the station completely. There was no way he was going to allow them to follow him to Cardiff. He would have to get a later train, or find some other way of getting there. Jesus Christ, he thought, this couldn’t be happening. He was on the run in his own country, on the run because he wanted to live somewhere where you didn’t have to run from anyone.
Outside the station he was presented with a throbbing line of taxis, their engines ticking over lazily. There was a short queue – should he join it, or just keep moving? His stalkers were bound to have a car, or at least the ability to commandeer one. No, keep walking, lead them a merry dance while he worked out how to lose them.
The streets were crowded, bustling with people on their way to work. As Armstrong weaved through them, he often caught sight of a Party armband or a lightning-flash pin speared through a lapel – presumably the more ‘gentlemanly’ way to display one’s fascist colours. There were many Blackshirts too, walking in twos and threes, their chins thrust out in imitation of their beloved Leader. Armstrong noticed that passers-by gave way for them, some meekly offering fascist salutes as they passed. However, in the eyes of many he could see only hatred, derision and fear. It was for those people that he was fighting, Armstrong thought, for the majority of the British people, who wanted to rid themselves of this cruelty within their ranks that had taken them over and set them against each other.
Armstrong looked round. The snap-brim hats were a good thirty feet behind, enough for him to start running as soon as he turned a corner. He ran as fast as the crowds allowed, which wasn’t fast enough, because after a minute he looked round to see the same hats the same distance behind. Shit, he thought, shit. He was trapped.
The pleasing smell of coffee caused Armstrong to turn his head to the right. Queen Charlotte’s Tea Rooms – perfect. He would sit in there, read the papers, take stock. If they’d wanted to arrest him they would have done so already. There was no hurry – let them wait. There might even be a back entrance or a lavatory, out of which he could slip. He peered through the small windowpanes, their thick glass revealing a distorted picture of Bristo
lian matrons sipping tea and eating cakes and pastries.
As Armstrong gently pushed open the door, he saw that a printed notice had been hung above the Open sign: No Jews – By Order of the Management. With no prospect of taking his custom elsewhere, Armstrong stepped into a warm fug of bitter coffee and sweet perfume. The place was packed, and he quickly noticed that he was the only man there. He walked up to the counter and enquired whether there was room for ‘just one’.
‘Oh dear,’ replied a woman whom Armstrong took to be the proprietress. ‘We are a little full, sir.’
‘I don’t mind sharing a table.’
‘Well . . .’
‘I’ll happily pay the other person’s bill,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’m desperate for a cup of coffee – been on the go since five this morning.’
The proprietress, who Armstrong couldn’t help noticing had the most enormous bosom, spoke over his head into the room. As she did so, Armstrong allowed himself to ponder what had made this woman believe that Jews were so undesirable that they should not even be allowed to enjoy a cup of Earl Grey.
‘Would any of you girls mind sharing a table with this nice young gentleman? He says that he’s willing to pay the bill of whoever it is he shares with.’
At least ten hands shot up immediately. Young, thought Armstrong. He hadn’t been called that in a while.
‘Well, it would appear that you have a choice,’ said the proprietress approvingly.
Armstrong sat with the nearest of those who had put their hand up.
‘It’s very kind of you,’ he said. ‘As I said, I’m desperate for a cup of coffee. Would you like something else, madam? On me, of course.’
The woman, who was in her late sixties, perhaps older, smiled gently.
‘I’d love another pot of tea,’ she said, ‘as well as a couple of slices of Mrs Shipway’s luxurious shortbread. She makes it herself, you know. And perhaps I’ll have a couple of Bath buns to take home . . .’