. . . . of Hope and Glory

by R. Jay

  Henry grunted non-committedly, drained his tea cup and reached for the pot for a re-fill.

  "It’s a lot of money Grandpa. You can have half, that's the least I can …."

  "Don't be bloody stupid!" Henry spooned three heaped sugars into his cup, stirring it fiercely. "That money is your future, your parents legacy to you. It'll give you a better start in life than you've had so far. Don't go flushing it down the latrines boy. Go buy yourself a house, secure a roof over your head, a better one than this mind you. Somewhere you can always call your own where you can shut the door on the world, keep out intruders into your life. An Englishman's home is his castle."

  Chris's eyelids twitched worriedly. "You want me to move out?"

  "No! Stay here as long as you wish to, please. I don't want you to leave." The old man's voice wobbled just a little. "But I'll be leaving myself soon enough, pushing up the daisies as they say. This house will be yours too, but you won't want to stay here for ever. Bloody place is falling apart. Get yourself one of those modern houses over on that estate.

  "Or better still, move somewhere nobody knows you, where the police will leave you alone. Where the local community would not see Remembrance Sunday as a provocation."

  ***

  She took a big hit on the fat spliff, held it, released it, watched him stretch out on her bed through blue, pungent smoke. Lucy Lever was in love. She didn't see a scrawny, aging lay-about with shoulder length, straggly, greying black hair with a matching beard and moustache set.

  Though not quite her knight in shining armour, he was still a figure of great awe for her. A man she adored more than her own father, though he was of a similar age to daddy. Her infatuation had began a few years previously whilst she was still at university. Benny Mann had been invited by her slightly batty, left-wing lecturer to address the students as an associated speaker.

  He had spoken copiously to a largely bored, bemused young audience, with fiery passion, of oppressed social history, class struggles, and the power of the Brotherhood of Man, whatever that was. Nobody it appeared had told him that communism had collapsed in 1989 along with the Berlin Wall, under the weight of lies, naïve clap-trap and tired old dogma that had lost its steam years before. Still he claimed to be a die-hard party member, a life-long bachelor; 'I am married to Lenin.'.

  Despite the rhetoric, Benny had never been able to maintain the affected mystique of a cavalier, free thinking rebel long enough for any sensible young lady to want to marry him anyway. Flirting briefly with Mann and his anachronistic politics, they would invariably float away to emerge from the chrysalis of drab, impressionable student as materialistic, nihilistic city girls; the very breed he had vowed to suppress.

  Lucy Lever was a slow developer in that phase of evolution. Though having moved on into the wide world she remained his current squeeze, blocking the passage of a long line of younger airheads awaiting their short walk with the man of destiny.

  A student activist himself in the late 60's and early 70's, Benny Mann had eventually exhausted the patience and gullibility of university admission boards and had been 'dropped out' and left to wander his own shady path through life championing the cause of The Worker, but had shown nil inclination to join their respectable ranks.

  Indeed, apart from unemployment and numerous other state benefit claims, he had never shown any visible means of support, other than a modest stipend as committee chairman of the Party of Socialist Proletariat (PSP), which he founded and led in 1973. Also he edited the party newspaper, Republican England Daily (RED) which nowadays only printed once a week and was given away free outside London tube stations and student bars as few were inclined to pay for it.

  PSP's gutsy sounding ideology was revolutionary socialism, Marxist, and Leninist; all were chucked into the mix. Their stated long term aim was to overthrow the established order. Yeah, right. Replacing it with what was never really clear. They busied themselves as agents provocateur, infiltrating unions and pressure groups, inciting strikes and violent demonstrations in other peoples' names. Their avowed enemies were the usual forces of the devil; police, armed forces, monarchy, bosses and the middle-classes.

  A reality was that Benny's father had been a renowned society barrister and the majority of his fellow PSP anarchists had been spawned and nurtured in comfortable, well to do families. Much the same as Lucy Lever herself.

  However the heady days of the 70's and 80's with the Winter of Discontent and widespread civil disobedience petered out after the calamitous miners' strike, orchestrated by the weaselly Arthur Scargill who assisted the voluntary euthanasia and burial of thousands of honest livelihoods and ripped apart the social fabric of whole communities.

  Time and public perceptions moved on. Many young working-class no longer considered themselves as such. Reds under the beds were no longer desirable houseguests of an upwardly mobile proletariat. The PSP membership had withered to a sorry handful of used-to-be's, preaching their tired old sermons from bar stools in near empty pubs.

  Though some of the more slippery ones went into politics proper and eventually became government ministers.

  Benny Mann though, a perennial survivor, had moved on and had found fresh green playing fields on which the ethnic contest was a growing sport; the vociferous teams of 'Discrimination' and 'Oppression', sponsored and managed by the political correctness association, chanted and scored their way to the top of the league.

  It was an effortless transfer for tired old players like Mann, boosted on by bright eyed young cheerleaders like the Lucy Levers' of a brand new millennium, shaking their puffed up pom-pom's of self righteousness and corralled indignation.

  His new front-row was the Union of Anti-Fascists (UA-F) that he had conceived and launched on a drug-fest weekend in 2003, had somehow acquired a quasi-respectability and much trumpeted support from cross-party MPs, the Prime Minister himself, and the remnants of the union movement and Labour Party. To his immense gratification, the UA-F had managed to attract government funding with the support of ministers jostling for PC credentials and not least Yasir Davi. Who had his own agenda.

  The transparent reality that UA-F was a front for the rabid old PSP that still loitered in dark shadows like Banquo's ghost was consciously overlooked. That its methodology to combat 'far right groups' was to stage violent demonstrations, to disrupt private and public meetings of their perceived enemies and more telling, to physically attack democratic activity during polling campaigns in the name of democracy, was primly ignored by authority who secretly abhorred competition, particularly where popular, public perception and approval was attracted.

  So the happy conjunction of trendy politics and the race issue had brought Benny Mann from his lair in Angel Islington to East Anglia where a local Imam was rumoured to be planning to incite a great revolution in the status-quo. Musical serendipity to Benny's ears. Lucy Lever's location at the centre of a potential battle-front was just a happy co-incidence and getting better by the minute.

  He flicked through the sheaf of A4 printed pages that she had proudly handed to him like a first former. Whilst he read, she dried herself from showering after his lack-lustre love-making, vaguely wondering just when he had last bathed himself.

  "Your editor will print this?" There was amused scepticism in his voice.

  "My editor will print whatever daddy tells him to." She boasted, pulling on her panties before stretching across the tousled bed covers to stroke his skinny white leg.

  "Bit near the knuckle though for the Anglian Chronical isn't it?"

  "I haven't even finished with it yet. Wait until Monday's issue hits the streets. That'll make them sit up at their breakfast tables."

  "Blimey, I wouldn't dare to put this in RED never mind that little provincial rag you work for"

  "Not for long Benny. The bright lights of Wapping are calling me, and I don't care whose heads I use as stepping stones to get down to there."

  ******

  EIGHT

  For the f
irst time that week, the sun had thrust aside turbulent grey clouds to spread its warmth and bright presence on the assembled Legion members lined up in orderly fashion outside of St. Athelstan's church. God had shown his support and approval.

  Proud old men stood erect, glittering campaign medals arrayed on puffed out chests. Behind them on the roadway in neat ranks were the teenaged Holtingham Squadron of the Air Training Corps Band, nervously gripping their brass instruments that had been polished and buffed to a brilliant glow.

  Chris Carter waited at the front, wearing his father's own medals whom he had asked be represented. His hands clenched tightly onto the handles of Sid's wheelchair as if preparing for a fun-day race. His friend had protested at the arrangement, but it had been firmly pointed out that he 'just didn't have the legs for it'. Old soldiers' humour won the argument. Chris only too aware that this exercise in rehabilitation was as much for him as for Sid.

  To their right at the centre of the front row, Henry Carter had hoisted the Holtingham Legion Branch blue and yellow flag that fluttered above his white head and red beret. His white gloved hands gripped firmly on the pole that slotted into the leather socket on the broad leather belt at his waist. Another member carried the banner of St. George and another the Union Jack, their chins thrust forward as if carrying the colours into battle.

  At last the fussing vicar bustled into his place at the very front, billowing white vestments busy in the sharp breeze as he held aloft a gilded wooden cross adorned with a wreath of bright red poppies.

  "All set." He murmured over his shoulder.

  "Parade!" Henry's drill square bellow clear and firm. "Forward!"

  A drum roll and a rhythmic beat at the rear drove the procession forward at a dignified and steady pace along the centre of road. Hundreds of townsfolk had assembled on pavements lining the route through town to the War Memorial. Their numbers were swelled perhaps by the happy co-incidence that the 11th hour on the 11th day on the 11th month Armistice Day anniversary this year actually fell on Remembrance Sunday. A commemoration that the futile slaughter had been brought to a blessed halt.

  The young lads of the ATC had practised and drilled for months, determined to fulfil the honour awarded to them and play their hearts out. They left the church to the strains of 'Onward Christian Soldiers', then as the column left-wheeled out of Church Road snaking round into the High Street that had been closed to traffic that morning on the reluctant orders of the Chief Constable Beaumont, the music switched effortlessly to 'It’s a Long Way to Tipperary'. That iconic marching song so long associated with flickering black and white news reels of tired bedraggled Tommies' marching to their doom, and taken up in music halls throughout Britain.

  Loud cheering arose from either side of the road and the windows above as families and groups of people waved small flags, poppies prominently displayed on chests and hats, some singing with gusto the same lyrics that comforted their forefathers in the trenches.

  Local enthusiasts had dusted off a re-built Spitfire that had actually gone into battle from the rash of war time airfields in East Anglia, and now buzzed them, low overhead, the thundering Merlin engine blotting out the rejoicing at street level momentarily before climbing up and away in a smooth arc before spinning its wing tips around in a Victory Roll.

  Chris's spirits were high, elevating him to a level of well-being he had not felt in many years. As they moved on along the main thoroughfare like a visiting circus, even Sydique Sahni in his Royal Marines uniform and green beret was smiling, waving to the crowds and well-wishers. He was a different man to that morbid figure hunched on an old sofa in a dusty room with the curtains drawn at number seven, Squires Court. Chris slid a sidelong glance at his grandfather, resolutely striding forward, flag flying, apologising to nobody for honouring the war dead.

  Suddenly the open road ahead appeared to closes suddenly as a tangle of bodies spilled out onto the tarmac directly from the opened doors of the mosque. A mix of dark and white robes intertwined with the yellow fluorescent jackets of policemen, swirling around each other as the officers struggled to form a line and prevent the troublemakers charge at the parade which had stuttered to a halt fifty yards away.

  A score or so Asian youths in Arabic tribal dress resorted to hurling shrill cries of abuse and threats as taped Arabic music boomed from speakers on the mosque roof, smothering the gallant efforts of the brass band in the roadway below to keep playing. Banners printed with bold, black lettering, were held aloft jerking around in the melee, and in some cases used to beat at the police line.

  'BRITISH SOLDIERS GO TO HELL'

  'BEHEAD THOSE WHO INSULT ISLAM'

  'KILL THE INFIDELS'

  'SHARIA LAW WILL CONDEMN YOU'

  The solemn occasion of the day had been wrecked by this premeditated outrage by hate filled Muslim extremists, waving their fists at the bemused veterans.

  An initial reaction of shocked disbelief amongst the townspeople quickly evolved to revulsion and anger at such a betrayal. In turn they began to shout back, tensions stoking up rapidly as some members of the public began to surge forward towards the protestors, with just a thin yellow line dividing them all. Women shoppers, pensioners, workmen and young men tried to get at them.

  "Go home then, we don't want you here!"

  "This is England not Pakistan!"

  "Traitors!"

  The indignation was hot, instant, as long suppressed frustrations burst forth from habitually placid, law abiding people.

  A group of the young agitators had wriggled through the police lines and were running forward howling alien battle cries. Some of the good citizens stepped from the pavement attempting to block their path which was heading towards the marchers. One middle-aged man fell to the ground, nose spouting blood as a housewife vainly swung her handbag and screamed in the faces of his attackers. A pensioner jabbed a walking stick at them, a lone Spartan, 'they shall not pass'. He too was knocked flat, got a group kicking for his bravery.

  With the drama enacting just yards from them, Sid's eyesight was clear enough to understand what all the commotion was about. He made as if to rise from his wheelchair cursing with unbelieving rage as more of the crowd went to the old man's aid.

  Chris pushed him roughly back down into his chair. "Don't you bloody move!" He snarled, his blood frothing, teeth curling back from his teeth. That black tiger rage, born on that terrible night of his parents' death, already in full charge. He darted forward, running hard for the increasingly uneven fight, only partially aware of the bulky figure of Barry Wells closing in from his left.

  "With you Chris!" He shouted breathlessly, anger driving him forward.

  The teenagers assaulting the pensioner on the ground had swatted away his helpers as more of their number evaded police attempts to contain them and joined in the melee. One of them wielded the old man's walking stick like a trophy of war, grinning callously, white teeth gleaming in a dark face.

  Chris took him on first, leading with his head, butting the little shite down onto the tarmac. Barry caught another showing interest in Chris's turned back, with a swooping right hander that knocked his prayer cap clean off of his head as he staggered back on wobbly legs; didn't go down until Barry followed up with a hefty kick to the groin.

  The madness of battle blazing in his eyes Chris swung around to face another two of the troublemakers, one brandishing the banner that demanded beheading infidels, swinging it like a double headed axe in the diminishing space between them.

  "Come on then you fuckers!" Chris lunged forward, fist drawn back, blocking the swing of the wood handle with his other arm. Not so keen all of a sudden, the two darted back towards the relative safety of the fragmented police cordon, abandoning their placard, with an escalating free for all erupting all around as more of the younger men of the town joined in the fray, Holtingham at war, Chris pursued the pair, managing to hook fingers into the collarless neckline of one of their robes. Jerking him savagely backwards, he pummelled the screamin
g youth's head, unleashing that anger kept well in check for too many years.

  He never saw, never mind felt, the scything truncheon that smacked into the back of his skull, was barely aware of unidentified shock and spinning whorls of red light before his eyes as he crumpled down onto the roadway. Groggily he stared up into the face of the young PC Steve who had pulled him on the High Street just days before, and was now clumsily fumbling a Taser gun from its small holster on his belt.

  "Oi! No need for that mate!"

  Barry cannoned straight into him, knocking the policeman off balance as the mob of agitators swarmed around them, fleeing the fists and boots of the white Kafurs, back into the safety of the mosque opposite. With the pressure off, other officers turned and snatched Barry away, dragging him in a headlock and arm between his shoulder-blades towards the open rear doors of a riot wagon that had bullied its way past the lines of parade members standing in dumbfounded inertia.

  Moments later Chris was half thrown into the back of the van alongside his friend, bleeding copiously from a scalp wound, and the wire mesh inner door was slammed shut on them.

  "You okay Chris?" Barry produced a wad of tissues from his jacket pocket, pressing them on the back of his head to stem the flow of blood.

  "Yeah, ta'." Chris anxiously scanned the dispersing crowd just yards away. "The old boy with the stick, is he …?"

  "He's okay mate. I got him back on his feet when you went charging off after those 'Warriors of Islam'. Coupla' housewives took over, fussing after him. Think he was enjoying it, and he got his stick back. Looked set to lead a raiding party into that bloody Mosque."

  Chris switched his attention to the big wooden doors of that building that had been slammed shut on a knot of young local men, some of whom he half recognised from years before, as they hurled insults and threats after the agitators now safely ensconced inside.

  "Appreciate your help there Barry. That little bastard was going to zap me when I was already out of it. Can't wait to use their new toys some of those plod."

  "I could see it all coming before it happened. You were spotted son, targeted. Just couldn't get there in time before he laid that riot stick across your napper."