Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

  “I’m fine,” she said, “really. Go on, lock the door, make that call, then make everyone a cuppa, and a drop of brandy in it, wouldn’t hurt.” Both Glory and I were a little astonished at the swift turn things had taken and we really hadn’t had to do that much, it seemed more a question of light the blue touch paper and step away.

  Back at the bar, the crowd had divided into factions, the majority were ready to wade in and sort out whoever was giving Alf grief, although at the moment he only seemed under attack by a couple of old birds and Vernon. There were though, out of the thirty or forty gathered, two or three who were grinning and nudging each other. Cocky little bastard was Alf, thought he was the big I am and now look at him, maybe he’d had his time. Let someone else take charge; someone who could handle himself.

  Whilst still puzzled at the way things had gone down, Alfie Beeton was sure of one thing, authority needed to be reasserted and reasserted pronto. He knew only too well which of those in the crowd behind were champing at the bit to take over and were thrilled to the tips of their bovver boots at his humiliation. He’d show ’em. He swung on his heel and came straight for us spitting blood, in more ways than one, owing to Vernon’s head having at some point made contact causing damage to lip and tongue. He knew it was violence that inspired loyalty, and if they weren’t shit scared of him and his temper, he’d lost the upper hand. As he charged, Glory rose slowly holding her white stick crossways before her face, a hand at each end. The move was unexpected, her positioning accurate and the sound the bridge of his nose made as he ran straight into it wasn’t pleasant.

  “Hey, Alfie boy, need a hand?” someone sniggered. Someone else told him to belt up, another someone threw a punch and then all hell broke loose. It was mayhem, but oddly familiar, although I hadn’t actually been in the middle of a pub brawl before, but we’ve seen them on screen, fist hitting flesh, inarticulate yells of fury and pain, people thrown over tables, others bashed on the head with a chair, although so far nobody had crashed out through the front window. In the background, some ready wit had put another coin in the jukebox and the New Seekers, when they could be heard, wanted To Teach the World to Sing In Perfect Harmony. Looking around, I wished them luck with that.

  I thought this might be a good moment to start winding things down from our end as everyone seemed to be doing very well on their own. Glory nodded and we stood, but with a weirdly rising howl of fury, Beeton was on us bearing a grudge, and then some. He wanted to inflict on us the maximum amount of damage he could, in the shortest possible time; his fury carrying him way past the restrictions of repercussion and he leapt for Glory first.

  Kat, who disliked unpleasantness of any kind, had stayed under my chair till now but as she emerged, he trod heavily on her paw and she went for his leg. As he’d no idea there was a dog in the picture, this came as a surprise, but not enough to change his plans – he was so far gone I shouldn’t think the pain penetrated anyway. Glory and I moved back a couple of swift steps, exchanged a flash of thought and did together what we felt was necessary.

  We took the bitterly corrosive, all-encompassing hate, fear, ignorance and aggression of a bigot and reflected it right back at him. It stopped him dead in his tracks. For a moment he remained standing, then as it permeated body and mind, his legs folded bonelessly and he sank heavily to his knees. What we’d done hadn’t been pleasant, although as Glory silently pointed out, we’d simply reflected back what he owned. Even so, I think we were both taken aback at the potency of the sour hatred which moved through him like acid. Quite how powerful was evidenced by the reaction of the battling masses who stopped beating the hell out of each other for a good few minutes. They weren’t the most sensitive bunch but they must have shared briefly, an echo of what he was feeling, a sort of bitter, smelly psychic belch and it created a brief hiatus. Unfortunately, we were only halfway across the room when that discomfort was dismissed and they pulled themselves together. They didn’t know quite what had transpired but they it had something if not everything to do with us.

  In that instant, reunited, they became a mob with a single-minded mob mentality. With a roar as if from a single throat, they charged towards us led by a shrieking woman who’d smashed a bottle and, with it lethally jagged and pointing, was making good speed. We swung round to face them. Kat, sensibly retreating behind us, and Glory reached for my hand, the physical connection strengthening whatever we were going to do, although at that point I wasn’t quite sure what that was. Would we be crossing a moral line, if we turned a whole roomful of people, however unpleasant, into dribbling idiots?

  “Up?” she said, “That’ll throw them – quickly now.” I had a moment’s doubt, not having done it for ages, I could be a bit rusty but no, back came the old skill, smooth as silk and up we shot. The crowd headed by lethally-broken bottle lady were naturally surprised. As they skidded to a cartoon-like halt, practically beneath us, there were a lot of upturned faces where aggression had rapidly changed to gob-smacked.

  “Now the tattoos.”

  As we hovered, I don’t know whether Glory shouted or just thought loudly, it didn’t matter, working smoothly together, we simultaneously lasered in on inked flesh; on swastika and skull, words and symbols, all the declarations of hate people had happily chosen to be indelible on their skin. There was a lot of ink involved, so it was easy to focus and heat. It took a few seconds for them to become aware of various portions of anatomy mysteriously heating up, and then the heat increased and there was a great deal of hollering, turning in circles and grabbing at inexplicably painful parts. Bit harsh? It probably only hurt as much as when originally done, and maybe it would make them consider the wisdom of having anything similar done in the future. Anyway, by the time the ink was really hot, we’d stopped doing anything and were drifting slowly downwards, though nobody was paying attention, being somewhat involved in their own affairs.

  A warm, extremely large hand descended gently on my shoulder, another on Glory’s. Ed was behind us and we both automatically backed closer to his reassuring bulk. He hated this sort of thing even more than Kat, and he had none of Glory’s combative nature. He disliked violence of any kind and his misfortune had always been that his size and dead-pan reaction made so many want to ‘have a go’. He was more than able to take care of himself, just hated doing it. Nevertheless, he was one of the bravest people I knew. Even scared rigid, he’d waded in, time and again, to save one or other of us.

  Boris was moving forward now, from the side of the room. I’d no idea whether he’d been there the whole time, I hadn’t seen him, hadn’t sensed him, but he was here now and I was relieved, I was starting to feel tired and my legs were aching.

  “Your Attention Please!” he’d added, a pleasingly magnifying, megaphone echo and depth to his voice, so attention was gained quickly. “Please drop anything you are holding,” and such was the authority and expectation of obedience, they complied and there was a clatter as bottles, broken and unbroken hit the floor, along with an assortment of vicious looking knives and a range of knuckle dusters. “And now, if you have anything in your pockets that I wouldn’t like, please empty them.” The unprotesting crowd seemed to have gained a fair old grasp of what Boris would or wouldn’t like, and a lot more unpleasant items were extracted and added to individual piles. There was a brief pause, “And the rest,” he said. I couldn’t believe there was more to come – but there was.

  “Ed, if you wouldn’t mind?” he said without looking round, and the little piles of vicious intent which had accumulated next to nearly every individual began to move; slowly at first then gathering speed, scraping and bouncing as they shot across the floor to form one extremely solid, jaggedly high metallic heap. “Now, face down, on the floor, arms stretched in front. All of you. Now!”

  This was an exceedingly bewildered branch of the National Front. One minute they’d been rallying behind a sterling chap, part of a triumphal movement - nothing illegal, free speech, England and St. George and all that. N
ext they were flat on the floor, nursing painful burns in unexpected places, cut and bruised from fighting – nobody was quite sure what that had been about, the sterling chap was crying in the corner - and to cap it all two crazy women had played some kind of weird magic trick on them.

  Not one of the gathered assembly could say precisely what had happened but they were clear, from the sound of fast approaching sirens what was going to happen next. It had been that sort of an evening.

  By the time we were on our way out, the police were on their way in; pleased, if startled to find the troublemakers ready and awaiting collection. There was an older man, not in uniform who seemed in charge, as he and Boris passed each other he sketched a salute, Boris nodded briefly in return and we headed back to the van. A short way down the road, an enormous wave of tiredness hit me. Ed felt it and didn’t say anything but swept me up easily in his arms for the last bit.

  You might remember seeing it in the papers, around 10th August it would have been: Knitting Club Sorts Out National Front was the header in The Times. The Mail went with National Front Get the Needle, The Guardian opted for Wool Pulled Over Eyes of National Front and I think it was the Sun that put out Alfie Beeton Beaten! The reporters who’d pitched up shortly after the police, had been faced with a tricky decision, pick up on the scraps of unlikely information about two women or go with something fractionally more believable. They went for the latter, after all it was a gift of a story, and Doreen and Ethel arm in indomitable arm, united in righteousness, slid into celebrity as if to the manner born - dozens of interviews and appearances in the same week on both Russell Harty and Michael Parkinson.

  I suppose there may have been an issue as to whether the sort of interference we’d staged was a mistake, because publicity is lifeblood to any organisation, but then again, it rather depends on the type of publicity. The group we’d come across was a small part of an unpleasant whole but the ridicule surrounding them, went a long way!

  The right-wing march went ahead in Lewisham on 13th as planned, they had a big turnout, but there was an equal mass of people who, as Doreen might have said, ‘just weren’t having it!’ The marchers found they weren’t only vastly outnumbered by counter demonstrators, but that lots had taken the trouble to bring along knitting needles and wool. The Police ensured streets were efficiently cordoned off and marchers found themselves corralled and chivvied in groups down empty side roads. There was still plenty of hate spewed, the inevitable nasty clashes and some injuries before the march was over, but it certainly wasn’t the triumph it was supposed to be. It’s awfully difficult to inspire hate and fear when so many people are laughing at you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I didn’t feel it was necessary to trouble David with my evening at the Royal Oak. I’m all for honesty, but sometimes a bit of mystery in a marriage isn’t a bad thing, and I hated to upset him. I do know though that once you start with complicated lies, things can go seriously pear-shaped, especially if you can’t quite remember what it was you said. So, I kept it simple, told him I’d met Ed and Glory, we had a snack out; and no, no idea quite where because Ed drove, and yes it was lovely to see them again and no there wasn’t really any news, only that everyone was still worried about Ruth.

  I was seeing the midwife on a monthly basis now and our relationship had moved forward. She said I could call her Mavis and I said could she stop calling me Mum. She had adapted and was dealing good-naturedly with my routine of fainting at blood tests, keeping me on the couch so she didn’t have to keep picking me up. When I apologised the last time I came round, she patted my arm kindly and said not to worry, she was grateful for those few minutes because they allowed her to catch up with paperwork. I was getting regularly baby-kicked now and avis said she was happy, everything was normal and baby was thriving but of course, she always added, if there was anything at all worrying me - I shouldn’t hesitate to pop in and see her. As the main thing worrying me was whether I’d suddenly hear my baby talk to me, I wasn’t sure this was anything she could help me with, but thanked her anyway.

  We went on a shopping trip, with my Mother for advice and David for carrying. At Mothercare, we bought several maternity smocks which I felt didn’t so much hide the bump, but made me look ten times the size I really was. The lady serving us chuckled heartily at this, because apparently everyone said the same thing, which made me wonder why they didn’t do something about it. But as I couldn’t get into my normal clothes, had already had more than enough shopping for one day, and couldn’t now think much further than the next toilet stop, there seemed little choice.

  Hilary had made it her mission to knit everything and anything I’d need for the baby and was, to Martin’s irritation, constantly nipping down the road for technical discussion with Michele Young at the wool shop. I was a little startled at the growing pile of hectically multi-coloured babygros she was producing, I hadn’t come across knitted ones before, wasn’t sure how practical they’d be, and could only trust the baby wouldn’t have a great colour sense. Nevertheless, I appreciated enormously the affection behind the gesture and regretted I’d probably never have the chance to introduce Hilary to Doreen, kindred souls if ever there were.

  All newly-weds have their ups, downs and adjustments; ours were simpler in some ways, more complicated in others.

  “Nice evening,” David would comment noncommittally on the way home from a dinner party.

  “Mmm.”

  “You look lovely in that dress.”

  “I look enormous.”

  “That’ll be the baby.”

  “I did wonder.”

  Short pause, “You didn’t take to that Annabelle, did you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Seemed nice enough.”

  “She flirted with you.”

  “She didn’t after the bowl of chocolate mousse fell into her lap.”

  “Mmm, unfortunate?”

  At other times, things could get little terse. “That’s the last quiz supper we’re going to Stella.”

  “Why?”

  “You know darn well!”

  “We came top, didn’t we?”

  “Only because you got most of the answers before I had a chance to open my mouth.”

  “Not my fault – the quiz-master guy was looking at the answers before he’d even finished giving the question.”

  “You shouldn’t have been listening!”

  “He was thinking loudly.”

  * * * *

  I wasn’t feeling comfortable, and that wasn’t just because I was looking increasingly like a small tent in motion. There was an underlying unease, I didn’t know whether it was just to do with worry about Ruth, or whether there was something else but it was a discomfort that wouldn’t go; sitting like a small hard stone in my stomach, unmoving yet causing sick-making ripples. I kept harking back to what had been said on the way back from our evening out at the Royal Oak.

  When we’d climbed back in the van, Glory had briefly wiped one hand against the other, brushing away the taint of what we’d felt in there. For most of the way, nobody had much to say and as always, it was a wonderful silence, a blanketing from the rest of the world. Glory broke it after about twenty minutes, sighing and turning in the front seat. I was seated behind Ed with Boris on my left so she didn’t have to twist too far or uncomfortably, but I could feel her reluctance.

  “Will you remember not to say anything to Rachael or Ruth about the baby?”

  “I should think they already know?”

  Glory shook her head, “They haven’t said anything and I think they would,” she looked at Boris who nodded agreement. “for obvious reasons then,” she said, “we don’t think you should visit.”

  “Why is that obvious?” I hadn’t planned a visit but being told I mustn’t, was a different thing altogether.

  “It might be better if they know nothing about the baby for now.” I waited for an explanation and after a pause she added, “Look, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t
need to. Don’t ask questions.” There was an unspoken couple of words at the end of that which chilled me, what she meant but hadn’t said was ‘it’s safer’. She turned back to the front again, gazing sightlessly out of the window. She did that sometimes, didn’t use anyone else’s eyes; simply retreated into her blindness.

  Nobody else spoke and after a while I must have dozed, not waking till we stopped when I found I’d been snoring against the shoulder of a slightly disconcerted Boris. I gathered he hadn’t had much to do with pregnant women who dropped off anytime they had the chance. Glory got out, pulling down the front seat and holding on to my hand because I was still half-asleep and had managed to get tangled up with Katerina, who chose to exit at exactly the same time. Glory unwound the lead from my legs and Katerina, who generally did effusive about as much as Ed, gave her an affectionate nudge on the hip with her head, then started pulling towards our front door, she’d had enough for one evening. Glory, put her hand gently on my stomach for a few seconds and answered the unasked question.

  “No,” she said, “nothing odd.” And I suppose it was because I was relieved that I stupidly forgot to ask Boris to please keep me and my conscience up to date with what was happening about Devlin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “That girl,” said Brenda, “is going to pieces in front of us, what’re we going to do?” she was standing in the doorway of my office where I’d just landed thankfully in my chair - getting into work was getting no easier, whichever way I walked to try and avoid it, the fishy goings-on at Mac Fisheries was still getting to me. I held up an unhappy hand, breathing slowly in and out, which Midwife Mavis said would help, but didn’t really.

  “Sorry, just...”

  “I know,” she said sympathetically, “Mac...”

  “... don’t even say it.” Everyone said the sickness stopped after three months but my body hadn’t got the memo and here I was, three months further on and still wobbly with it. Katerina was circling uneasily; I’d like to think in concern but in reality it was because the cleaner had moved her basket - only a few inches - but Kat liked everything just so. I moved it with my foot and she inclined her head graciously and settled in.