. . . . of Hope and Glory

by R. Jay

  He slightly swayed as he walked up to the front door, clumsily dragging his key from a jacket pocket. The welcome home bash was a pleasant surprise that lasted into the late afternoon, until one by one, his friends, barely remembered, had filtered away with beery farewells, back to partners and families, some even to night shifts. There'd be a few toilet breaks tonight he thought to himself, chuckling.

  His free hand checked on the half bottle of rum in his other pocket that he'd brought back for grandpa as he slid the key in the lock and opened the door. Unusually the hallway lights were off and none peeked out from under closed doors. Instantly he felt unease, and guilt,. He hadn't checked in with grandpa at all that day since emerging from that police cell and ending up in the George and Dragon, without so much as a call home to say he was okay.

  The last he had seen of the old man through the small window in the back door of the police van as he and Barry were driven away, was of him arguing vehemently with that police Inspector on the roadway.

  "Grandpa!" He called, a touch frantic as he pushed the door shut behind him. No answer.

  Opening the lounge door he saw that the curtains were still wide open and grandpa's silhouette in the dark, framed by a soft halo of light from the street lamps outside. He was seated in his favourite armchair angled towards an unlit fire, the TV off, unmoving.

  "Grandpa?" Chris switched on the main light and lurched towards him in alarm, fearing the worst.

  "I see that they've let you go then." Henry's deep voice rumbled with leaden tone, eyes still fixated ahead on nothing in particular.

  "Jesus! You had me scared for a moment. Are you feeling okay?" Chris stood at his side, squeezed the big shoulder through a threadbare, hand-knit cardigan. "You haven't lit the fire, you're cold."

  His grandfather finally made a movement, his hand wafting the chill air between them. "Been thinking, didn't realise the time. Had your dinner?"

  Chris's face flushed red with embarrassment and shame. "Gaw'd, you haven't eaten either have you? I've had plenty thanks. Some old mates threw a surprise drink-up down the pub, can't believe how the time went."

  "I know. Your mate, that Indian lad Sydique, came on the parade yesterday, he telephoned me, let me know you wouldn't be home for a while. Nice lad, wounded hero. I hope he doesn't think too badly of me when he hears."

  A frown creased Chris's face. "Hear what? He's seen the newspaper article if that's what's worrying you?"

  Henry pulled a crumpled letter from down the side of his chair, held it up to his grandson. "I've had a visit from the police, delivered this letter from the Chief Constable himself. They are considering prosecuting me for 'Hate Crime'.

  "'Hate Crime'? What the hell is that?"

  "I telephoned that reporter girl this morning, tore her off a strip over that article she wrote. Gave her a piece of my mind, what I think of her and those protestors yesterday. Now it seems I'll have to appear in court like a common criminal. " His cold hand found Chris's still clamped onto his shoulder, raised his imploring face up to him. "I've never done anything illegal all my life lad, never. How can I be charged with a crime for speaking my mind?

  "When did my country become a fascist state? Aye, tell me?"

  Chris shook his own head angrily. "Look, don't upset yourself grandpa. Let me light that fire, cook you something to eat for a change. In the morning I'll phone the solicitors, they'll sort these prats out.

  "Nothing is going to happen overnight is it?"

  ***

  Chris's bedroom door was rapped on sharply three times in quick succession, a pause, then three more, this time louder. Grandpa's Reveille call. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes as he squinted with distorted vision at his bedside clock. Eight a.m., not exactly the crack of dawn but felt like it, given the beer consumed at the George and Dragon yesterday and a few large rums back at home last night.

  "Chris, rouse yourself we're going out!" Grandpa back in military mode, short sharp barks like a dog of war.

  "Uh-huh - minute." Was the best he could manage scrambling out from under the heavy blankets, no duvets in this house, blanching at the frigid air that wrapped around him.

  Downstairs the kettle was also whistling a shrill summons, a pan of fried breakfast hovered over his plate. An army marches on it's stomach.

  "What's the rush grandpa? Thought we were going looking at cars this morning, get me mobile again. Dealers won't be open 'til ten or so."

  Henry Carter's craggy face was grim as he ladled out food. "Got a call from Doug Easton earlier, he's on the Legion committee with me. He got it from the postman."

  "Oh yeah, - what?"

  "Some bastard has defaced the War Memorial. All hands needed down there to clean up the mess, put it right. Okay?"

  "The War Memorial! That's unheard of. What sort of animal scum would do that?"

  ***

  It was a ten minute brisk walk. His grandfather was puffing heavily when they got there, unusual for him despite his age. A small crowd had gathered at the spot, centre of Market Square, some council officials and workmen. A police car was parked adjacent to the monument the sergeant and constable whom Chris recognised well enough, sat inside, in the warm. Doug Easton saw their approach, detached himself from whatever discussion was taking place and hurried over to meet them both, his flabby face pale with shock or outrage, probably both.

  He didn't say anything but half turned and pointed a finger at the town's Memorial. The bronze figure of a WW1 Tommy, Lee Enfield rifle at half port with the eighteen inch bayonet fixed, stood heroically atop an eight foot granite plinth that bore the inscribed names of all the townsmen who had given their lives in war for the past hundred years, including that of Chris's great-grandfather Thomas. Only now, his head was missing, sawn off clumsily, the hack-saw blade marks visible across the shiny exposed metal.

  To add further insult to the defacement, red paint had been slung at the headless figure and had run down like life-blood to puddle on the plinth's base kerb. Several of the yellow posters declaring Jihad and the 'establishment' of Sharia Law had been pasted onto the polished stone and a hand made placard hung from the bronze rifle barrel by a cord. It swung gently in a light morning breeze as if to demand attention to the message scrawled on it with marker pen.

  'CRUSADER SOLDIERS ARE COWARDS AND MURDERERS'.

  And squeezed in below that as if an afterthought.

  'ALLAH WILL STRIKE YOU ALL DOWN'.

  Henry could say nothing at first, frozen still, staring with simmering eyes at the desecration, until Doug pointed to a pile of ashes to the side of the edifice.

  "The fuckers have even made a bonfire of all the poppy wreaths." He was a veteran of the Malayan Crisis, a national serviceman who went on to sign on for a full term. Didn't need this crap at his age.

  Chris gingerly held on to his grandfather's arm, could feel it trembling beneath the cloth with pent up rage. With his other hand he gently patted Doug's back.

  The police sergeant looked across to them with a bored expression, recognised Henry, climbed reluctantly out of the car and sauntered across, studiously ignoring Chris.

  "Mr. Carter, you're chairman of the Legion Committee aren't you?"

  "Yes, that is correct." Henry muttered through clenched teeth, his reddened eyes not leaving the malicious damage.

  "Looks like kids getting up to a bit of mischief, some time last night. Must have been late, nobody saw a thing. Made a right mess.

  "I've had a word with the council and they say they can get some blokes onto it in a few days. Not sooner I'm afraid, cut-backs and all that, more important things to sort out. Unless your lot can organise anything before that?"

  Henry Carter slowly turned his head to stare blankly back at him, speechless. Chris intruded before his grandfather could articulate a suitable response, he was in enough trouble already.

  "'Looks like', c-u-n-t-stable? Kids? Are you looking in the same direction we are?" He pointed up at t
he placard. "What does that suggest to you, take your time, phone a friend if need be?"

  The policeman stepped back defensively before the force of Chris's outburst. "Anyone could have put that there Mr. Carter. Even you."

  Chris, controlling an urge to punch him even more senseless, stepped sharply forward to make up the ground between them. "Why don't you go and hassle some motorists Sherlock? We'll sort this crap out then go and settle a small matter, see it doesn't happen again."

  The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "Are you proposing to commit violence Mr. Carter? Again?" He asked breathlessly, battling a rising excitement.

  "Me officer, whatever makes you think that? Like you say, could have been anyone with a mate called Allah couldn't it?"

  He turned away in disgust and frustration, leading his grandfather across the cobbled square towards a small café. The old man was not looking too good.

  "You go and get a cup of tea grandpa, in the warm. I'll round up a few lads and we'll take care of this, don't you worry."

  ***

  They didn't need persuading, Barry Wells, the Ryan brothers and half a dozen others who could be contacted at short notice. All descended on Market Square in a squeal of tyres and a welter of curses tempered with sorrowful comment.

  Nobby Clark the decorator, turned up in his van loaded with ladders, steps, scrapers, paint strippers and wire wool. Even the old Sikh from around the corner had heard the news and brought some of his fire damaged stock; brooms, scrubbing brushes, buckets and industrial cleaners. Surveying the damaged memorial with a distressed expression on his wrinkled face, he volunteered the information of how his father had fought with the Indian 5th Infantry brigade at El Alamein, was cremated in Egypt along with hundreds of his companions who died in the numerous battles against the German forces.

  For three hours the impromptu work detail set to the task with the encouragement and blessings of passers-by; softening the paint then scraping and scrubbing it off as best they could. It came off the bronze figure soon enough but so did ninety years of patination, leaving 'Tommy Atkinson' with a sorrowful patchy and scruffy finish. One that would never have passed muster on parade. Even the granite was left with a residual staining from the cleaning agents and ingrained red spots that would take years of traffic grime and atmospheric pollution to hide the desecration. A sour Hobson's Choice of remedy.

  Henry had drunk as much warming tea as his weakening bladder could bear whilst he watched the furious activity through the café's steamy window with morose eyes. That monument had stood there since 1922, was older than him, just. Never in all those years had anybody dared to commit such a sacrilege. He despaired with a hurting heart of the alien wickedness that he had never thought to see in his country.

  After an hour he had ferried trays of teas and burgers across to the volunteers before leaving to walk sadly over to the Legion Club where he knew Doug Easton and other committee members would congregate, probably open the bar a little early, drown their writhing disgust. Why not?

  By lunch-time Chris and friends had done as best as was possible, standing back to view their efforts, each privately dismayed at the sight of the headless soldier.

  'Bastards!' was the mutual assessment.

  As they stood at the bar in the George and Dragon a short while later, a certain look came onto Rick Ryan's long, pugnacious face.

  "You know lads, didn't Nobby here say those bloody posters were put up all over town on Monday? As one the group groaned into their pints, knew what was coming. "Well we can't leave a job half done can we, leave them bloody things stuck up all over the place. Let's finish up here and get out there and tear the fucking things down."

  An hour later, there was not a single offending yellow poster left in view in Holtingham. The lads had moved up both sides of the High Street in a sweeping line, ripping them off street furniture, walls, fences, entering shops to pull them from the inside of the display windows. In some of the establishments they were met with sullen indifference, in others dark eyes glowered with resentment, hate even.

  Job complete, they dispersed back to their daily labours interrupted by Chris's summons. He had a small private task that he had set himself, but had avoided up to now. Surreptitiously he slipped into a florist, emerging with a small posy of flowers, hoping that none of the group were still in the vicinity as he negotiated the pattern of backstreets to one he had not seen for many years.

  Strangely nervous, he positioned himself behind a parked van, self consciously furtive, for over an hour until against all the odds, with a rush of nerves he spotted her. She pulled up in a small Nissan car outside her family home he remembered so well.

  Something inside of him did a somersault at the sight of her as she climbed from the vehicle. She had barely changed in all this time, a few worry lines perhaps, some extra pounds in weight which suited her. His Alison, childhood sweetheart who pledged to wait for him while he did his planned stint in the army. Then his world had imploded and he had not seen her since. He was the one to blame, had refused any contact with anybody apart from his grandfather whilst in prison. That had meant to be a temporary coming to terms with his situation, but somehow continued on along a furrow of self pity and anger he couldn't divert out of. But now he was back, reconnecting with his old world, Alison top of the list. It had taken him days to pluck up the courage, apologies and explanations called for.

  He was poised to emerge from behind the van, call out her name, hold out the flowers with a tremulous grin in place, when she leant back into the car, reaching in, then straightened up with a slumbering infant in her arms. A young girl of about eight years old also clambered out from the rear seat dragging a school satchel with her, asking querulously what they were having for lunch and would 'daddy' be around to see them.

  Chris froze to the spot, petrified that Alison would look round and see him now. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! What on earth had he expected to find after all this time? Swiftly he turned around, head down, tossed the flowers over a garden wall and strode quickly away, dreading that she would spot him, call after him. She didn't.

  ******

  TWELVE

  There were six of the beauties, all lined up like debutantes at a society ball, waiting for the right man with enough money to take them away. Chris had the money alright, had checked his account that afternoon after fleeing Alison's street like a kicked dog, needing a comforting salve to massage away that bruising experience.

  In fact he could have afforded to buy all six Landrovers he had found advertised in the local classifieds. Not ordinary Landrovers if there ever was such a thing. These were the 127, 3.5 litre petrol guzzlers on a stretched chassis. Basically a Defender with the four door, five seater crew cab with a hard top, high capacity flat bed tacked on. These particular models had extra wide wheels fitted and the front 'bumper' was a wide steel clamp-on with integral winch and twenty foot of steel hawser on a drum.

  He'd grabbed a cab to this smallholding five miles outside of Holtingham, four hundred yards up a muddy, pot-holed track; Landrover territory. The taxi driver was non too impressed bouncing his bread and butter auto along there, nor with the snarling Rottweiler straining at the end of a worryingly thin chain to get at them. Chris offered to double his fare if he'd wait in the yard, keep the nice doggy company, while he conducted his business.

  The vendor was a wiry, harassed looking fifty year old in a crumpled blue boiler suit, with a nervous tick in one eye. "I only wanted one, had to buy the whole six of them as a single lot at auction. Ex-electricity company vehicles, pylon maintenance gangs cut across countryside sorting out problems and 'fings.

  "Five grand do you. They're all pukka, so choose any one."

  Chris was too pre-occupied with that morning's activity at the War Memorial and the discovery that Alison, his Alison, had found a life without him, to barter much.

  "Look chuck a few gallons of juice in that one there, dig out the paperwork and I'll be back in the morning with cash in a bag and my insur
ance cover note. Deal?"

  Some of the weight visibly lifted off of the other man's bowed shoulders as he stuck out an oily hand. "Put it there squire, you've just bought yourself a bit of a beast."

  ***

  "Yes Yasir, yeah I know all that." Benny Mann screwed his index finger into his ear whilst pressing the mobile harder against the other, as a drunk outside his first floor flat swung around a swaying lamppost anchored to it by one hand. Happily he bawled out an off key rendition of Good Golly Miss Molly with a gusto that the effervescent Little Richard could never have matched, even in his hey-day. Angel Islington at night was no stranger to such impromptu performances.

  As the MP for Holtingham stuttered to a temporary halt, Benny jumped back into the heated dialogue. "Of course I back whatever he's up to. If you want your Islamic uprising in this country Yasir, you have to jump right in there, start kicking shit about. Kamal is keeping it close to his chest, but he has plans for something really big. Holtingham will be the catalyst for the big bang.

  "I've been travelling all around the Midlands and the North, many Imams and clerics, the new breed radicals that is, want some movement on this. Their own congregations, the young in particular, are demanding the immediate establishment of Khilafah. Sooner than later. The people of this country are beginning to wake up to cold facts concerning the onus Islam places upon Muslims wherever they may be in the world to impose your faith on them by force if necessary; and one day soon, they may try to do something about it.

  "We cannot rely on your friends in Parliament to forever hold the line. It is war of ideologies Yasir … "

  No, I know that I'm not a Muslim. But for forty years I have dreamt of overturning the status quo of this country, destroy the indigenous character as have many others. Much has been done in achieving this already with mass immigration, the introduction of punitive laws and state intrusion into private liberty. We are on the cusp of … "

  "I have played my own small part in this process Yasir, creating mass disorder on the streets to snatch a bigger voice than the average citizen. I was on all the great marches of the 60's and 70's. I have been clubbed down onto the pavement under the batons of the Special Patrol Group. They have now gone and I am still here. I know what it is to bleed for one's cause Yasir. Do you? …."