by Andy Conway
She put the crisp banknotes on the table and they both stared at them.
“Will this be enough for the posters?”
“With bells on,” said Henry. “That would actually fill the dance hall with jazz bands for a week.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, you can have it.”
Charlie pushed the money back across the table to her. “We couldn’t possibly take your money, Rachel.”
“But I have it. And you need it. And I want to put the concert on as much as you.”
They both stared at the notes. They seemed to have a hypnotic effect on them.
“I think, as an American,” said Henry. “You don’t quite realize how much money you might be flashing around.” He picked up the newspaper and rapped the front page for emphasis. “Look at it. Hunger, poverty, financial collapse and three million unemployed. War heroes singing for their supper.”
Rachel cleared her throat. “We have a Depression in America too, Henry,” she said. “I don’t have enough money to solve all of Britain’s problems. But I do have enough to solve yours. Yours and Charlie’s.”
Henry grinned. Charlie stifled a laugh. Rachel realized she had blown away a great cloud of doom that had been hanging over these men for a long time.
“Rachel,” said Charlie. “We’d be very happy to accept you as a partner in our enterprise. And we’d be more than happy to take your money.” He picked it up and handed it back to her. “But for the moment, I suggest you keep it safely hidden away in your purse, and we’ll use it when we need it.”
“Which will be later today, at a certain printer,” said Henry.
Charlie lifted his teacup. “Let’s drink to our new partnership.”
“And the possibility of fresh tea leaves,” said Henry.
They toasted each other and slurped the weak tea and Rachel stuffed the banknotes back in her purse.
“Do you think we’ll get any trouble?” said Charlie suddenly.
“What for?” asked Henry.
“You know. Putting on a coloured band? It’s never been seen here. They don’t like anything new. You got attacked yesterday for being a Jew...”
“I didn’t get attacked, Charlie.”
“Ten thousand people at the British Union of Fascists’ rally last night,” said Charlie, jabbing the newspaper. “In Birmingham.”
“Pah!” said Henry. “Who cares about them?”
Charlie shrugged and drank his tea. “Just saying. We might need to hire some muscle is all.”
— 15 —
AMY PARKER LOOKED UP at the prisoner being led out of the cells as she unrolled the arrest report from her typewriter, separating the flimsy sheet of black carbon paper and the pale purple-printed copy sheet. She filed them in the different manila card folders without looking.
Sid Haye didn’t have the cowed demeanour of most people being released after a night in the cells. They usually came out looking sheepish, glad to be almost free and on their way, hoping the officers wouldn’t change their mind and keep them another day.
But Sid Haye marched up to Sergeant Webster’s desk whistling the Internationale. She could see that Constable Davies behind him was itching to give him a slap. He shoved him towards the desk.
“Morning, comrade,” said Sid with a cheeky grin.
“You watch that mouth of yours, Haye,” said Sergeant Webster. “It’s got you in enough trouble as it is.”
“And a great deal more, I’ll wager,” said Sid. “Or I wouldn’t be doing my job as a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain.”
Davies pushed him in the back. “You be careful I don’t do my job as a member of Her Majesty’s police force.”
“As a hired hand of the capitalist state machine,” said Sid.
“I’ve heard enough,” said Webster. He wrote the release time in his ledger. “Out you go, sunshine.”
Sid backed out of the station, jacket clutched in one hand, insolent grin all over his face.
“Funny, ain’t it, how you arrest the likes of me, but not one of the fascists who were running round kicking people’s heads in last night? It’s almost like you’re protecting them.”
Davies blushed with fury. “You better watch you don’t get your head kicked in!”
“Constable Davies,” said Webster in a warning growl.
They watched Sid Haye saunter out, whistling the Internationale.
“Aw, what I’d give for ten minutes alone in a cell with that commie b—’ He stuttered and remembered Amy was present, nodding towards her. “Bleeder.”
“Language, Davies.”
Amy looked at the clock. “That’s me done for the day, Sergeant Webster,” she said, rising and reaching for her handbag.
“Righto, Amy. See you tomorrow.”
She walked through the reception area. Davies nodded and mumbled a goodbye to her, looking at his boots.
She walked out and breathed fresh air. It was a beautifully sunny and mild morning for January. They said it was going to be sunny and mild all week.
She wasn’t sure how much longer she could take working part-time at the police station. It wasn’t the lack of glamour or promotion opportunities, so much as the constant presence of a man who was only ever interested in her when no one else was around.
She dashed the last few yards to catch a tram heading to Moseley village. It sailed past Sid Haye sauntering up the long street.
She closed her eyes as the tram passed 12, Alcester Road, trying to shut out the memory of her father.
The tram was passing the Prince of Wales when she opened her eyes again. Another good reason to quit the job at the police station — having to pass that spot every day. If she got a job in Moseley or Kings Heath she could avoid it.
She hopped off at Moseley village and viewed the situations vacant cards in the newsagents’ window. She could buy some potatoes at Shufflebotham’s on the corner of Woodbridge Road and some rye bread from Luker’s and walk home down Church road. It was pretty much coming back the way she’d come but she preferred the quality of the shops in Moseley village and the walk did her good.
There was an insurance firm and a solicitor in Kings Heath both wanting clerks, but they didn’t say if they were part-time positions. She noted down the telephone numbers.
A man was watching her.
She focussed out of the index cards and onto the surface of the glass where the reflection showed the street behind her: cars and vans flashing past, and a man outside a barber’s shop, standing staring at her.
It was him.
Her heart caught, missing a beat.
A familiar rush of nausea. This had happened so often and it never had been him. She was over the feeling already and resigning herself to turning round and seeing that it was just another man. Just another man, who meant nothing to her.
She turned and looked.
His startled eyes stared back.
It was Danny Pearce.
She felt her face go cold. Her belly flipped over like that time she’d taken the ferry across to France. The world was swimming. She was underwater.
He stared back at her from the other side of the street. Each time a van flitted between them she expected that he would have disappeared. But he remained. Danny Pearce. Looking exactly as he had that day in 1912. The same boy. As if 22 years hadn’t passed since then.
He was going to disappear. He had to disappear. Like a mirage, an hallucination, a dream. He had to disappear because it didn’t make sense. He was here again and he didn’t look a day older.
He smiled. Then he looked both ways. He was coming to her. He crossed the road, walking towards her, closer and closer. A gust of wind flashed between them.
“Amy,” he said.
Someone answered for her. It couldn’t have been her because she couldn’t speak, but the voice sounded like hers.
“Danny? Danny Pearce?”
“I’ve come back to you, Amy,” he said.
The ground shifted beneath her. D
o not faint, she told herself. This is not real. This is not happening. You might be mad but do not let it show. Do not let anyone in Moseley see that you are mad.
Just like your father.
She pushed him away and ran into the road.
The shriek of brakes. A horn blared.
She ran and found herself on the other side of the road. Voices shouting after her.
She ran up the street, past the Fighting Cocks, the shops a blur. She turned the corner at Shufflebotham’s and ran up Woodbridge Road, scared to look back.
She didn’t stop running until she was half way down Church Road. She caught her breath as she turned into Newport Road and looked back to make sure he wasn’t following her.
No one.
I am mad. Just like my father. They will come and take me to Winson Green Insane Asylum.
Mrs Ogborne called out to her as she bustled her way into her house. Answer her. Do not let them think you are crazy like your father.
She called a hello and slammed the door.
Hide. Hide away. Don’t let them come for you.
She locked the door and slumped to the floor in the hallway, sobbing.
And she remembered Little Amy from yesterday. The stupid girl in love with a man from her dreams who was nothing but a ghost that would one day drive her mad.
She knew now that they had much more in common than their name.
— 16 —
WHENEVER RACHEL WALKED into Silver Street, she always thought of Shakespeare, but this time she was overwhelmed by the changes. In 2013, everything had been replaced by soulless shoebox blocks, but for the little huddle of shops on the right as you entered. In 1934, those cottages ran both sides of the street as far as the eye could see. It was a vibrant and bustling side shoot of the high street.
The Kings Heath Press was at number 32, where she was more used to seeing the Lidl store. She followed Charlie and Henry inside and watched as they chatted with the overalled gentleman across the green counter. It looked more like a factory reception than a print shop, and she realized that was because in this time printing was an industrial process. Over the years it had become cleaner, whiter, more pristine. She wrinkled her nose. The place had a ripe smell that caught you right at the back of your throat. But she was too fascinated by the process to go outside and leave Charlie and Henry to it.
There were leaflets, posters, pamphlets of all types running off the presses, and it occurred to her for perhaps the first time in her life what a revolution the desktop printer must have been.
She’d been too young to appreciate its impact on everyday life in the late twentieth century. She had been born with them everywhere. As a History student she, of course, possessed an abstract knowledge that they hadn’t always been around and that people had relied on an actual print shop to print off whatever they needed, but only here — standing in a busy workshop, seeing the dozen or so men dealing with the huge output of material, the sweat and grime of it, contrasted with the pristine quality of the printed paper output — only now could she appreciate how amazing it was.
A few other customers had called in from businesses all around Kings Heath with jobs, all handwritten on foolscap sheets, and had discussed their requirements with the men who ran the shop.
She wondered how she might explain to Charlie that all of this was gone in 2013; that if you wanted something printing, you pressed a button on your computer and watched it roll out of your own little print machine, and in full colour.
Charlie and Henry were debating font sizes and whether they could afford a second colour, when Sid Haye walked in.
Rachel watched him, his cocky saunter, his grin of recognition when he saw them. It was not a nice smile, she knew instantly.
“Good afternoon, comrades.”
Charlie and Henry turned and looked at him for a silent moment. They didn’t make a sound, but Rachel sensed it as an inward groan they shared.
“Hello, Sid,” said Charlie disconsolately.
Sid pulled out a folded scrap of paper and presented it to them.
In crude pencil Rachel could make out ‘Why the real enemy is the National Government, not Mosley’s Fascists’ as a headline. There was other, smaller writing below it but she couldn’t read it.
“You’re the first to know about our next public meeting, Saturday night,” he said. “I know you’ll be there.”
“We’re busy Saturday night, Sid,” said Henry.
“Too busy to defend the oppressed workers against the brutal oppression of the British government? What could be more important than that, eh?”
“We’ve got a concert that night,” snapped Charlie. “You know full well.”
“Ah,” said Sid, as if remembering. “Your bourgeois crooner singing love songs to stupefy the masses. I remember.”
Sid snatched the sheet of paper from Charlie’s hand and scanned it. He gave a low whistle.
“A coloured band, eh? In Moseley?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Do you have an objection?”
“Not me. Of course not. I think it’s very progressive.” Sid handed the sheet back to Charlie. “Our friends in the British Union of Fascists might disagree, though.”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “I thought that too. Perhaps you and your members might volunteer to provide us with some protection?”
Sid held up his own leaflet draft again. “I’m afraid the Communist Party of Great Britain will be waging the real fight against social democracy, my friend.”
Henry laughed. “Yes. In a meeting room with a handful of people who already agree with you, instead of on the street, where you might actually find some fascists.”
“Well, that’s symptomatic of your bourgeois thinking on the issues that face us, comrade. We’ve got the Daily Mail supporting Oswald Mosley and telling us all how nice Herr Hitler is. Lord bloody Rothermere, himself; pillar of the British establishment. Meanwhile you can get ten months’ hard labour for organising a march for the unemployed. But the tide is turning. Look at the King and Country motion in Oxford. It’s our policies in the Communist Party that will defeat capitalism and win freedom for all oppressed workers. And that’s the only way to defeat fascism.”
“Yes,” laughed Henry. “Just like your policies led to the defeat of Hitler in Germany. Great work there.”
The smug smile disappeared from Sid’s face and Rachel could see a glower of resentment. Henry had said the one thing that could strike this man in the heart.
She realized now the full force of something she’d only ever studied in dusty textbooks before. She’d read about the rise of Hitler and the disaster of Stalin instructing the Communist Party of Germany to oppose the social democratic centre instead of the rising Nazis. You read it in a book and couldn’t understand how anyone could mistake Hitler as the real menace that must be stopped.
But here she was in 1934, where all of this was still playing out. Hitler had only just become Chancellor. The Daily Mail and a large portion of Britain’s ruling class, including a certain Prince of Wales who was about to become King, thought Hitler was a sensible politician, a strong leader, the kind we needed. And the tragedy was that the Communist Parties around the world, under orders from Stalin in Moscow, were pursuing a ridiculous line of attacking democracy, flawed as it was, instead of the Nazis.
She saw for the first time how this was not about abstract ideas, but about real people like Charlie, Henry and Sid making real choices: real people in humdrum streets trying to change the world.
The print shop foreman returned to the front desk and took Charlie’s rough draft, promising the posters would be ready in four hours.
Charlie pocketed his receipt. “Good luck with your meeting, Sid.”
He headed for the door. Henry followed, grinning, raising his hat.
“You might find your bourgeois singer crooning to an empty dance hall,” said Sid. “There’s a lot of people listen to the party around here and we’ll be advising them strongly against attending y
our event.”
“Good luck!” called Henry.
Rachel stared at Sid for a moment. She wondered if she should tell him about the disaster that was about to unfold: the rise of Hitler, the embarrassment of the Nazi-Soviet non-aggression pact, the outbreak of war, Hitler’s eventual invasion of Russia, the discovery of Hitler’s death camps.
How to tell him that every decision he was making was wrong? He reminded her suddenly of Danny. She’d warned him about pursuing Amy Parker and saving the girl’s life, but he’d ignored her, with that same smug look of self-righteousness.
And disaster had unfolded.
She just shook her head and walked out. There were some people you couldn’t tell anything to.
— 17 —
TIME IS A HUMAN ILLUSION. All times co-exist in the stupendous whole of eternity.
Danny turned his Kindle off and hid it inside the secret pocket in his suitcase. There was enough power in the battery to last him his entire stay here so it wouldn’t need recharging, which was lucky because the plug sockets were ones he’d never encountered before.
Hinton was right, he thought. Everything was simultaneous. It was the best theory for his experience he’d read so far.
He’d considered carrying the Kindle with him to keep it safe, but having it on his person meant it could be found if he was arrested. And he’d been arrested too many times in the past.
It was safer in a secret pocket of a locked suitcase.
The hotel was drab but comfortable. He had no intention of staying there much longer. Hopefully not another night, if everything went well with Amy tonight.
He walked out of the Alcester Lodge Hotel, noticing the different taste to of Moseley’s mild night air. Something he couldn’t define. It might have been the lack of pollution.
He walked down the rise towards the village, passing the Dovecote, and mulled over his options.
Her reaction this afternoon had shocked him, much as her reaction to him turning up at her door in 1966 had shocked him.
There had to be a way he could get through to her. How could she be so obtuse? He travelled through decades to be with her, but could never get through to her enough for her to hear what he had to say.