by Sean O'Brien
‘The British Patriot Party, sir,’ said Steerman. Rackham’s timing had been deliberate. I could hardly oppose him in front of the boys.
‘Fascists,’ said Dent. ‘Is that allowed?’
‘That’s a very harsh word,’ said Rackham.
‘But what are their policies?’ Dent, his father’s son, pursued. Steerman glanced at Rackham, as though for permission.
‘Stop immigration. Repatriate immigrants. Seek immediate entry to Europe. Pursue a programme of national spiritual regeneration. And support Ulster against the Fenians. In other words, be patriots.’
‘Enoch,’ said Arnesen. ‘He’s got the right idea.’
‘Fascism dressed up,’ said Dent. ‘We need immigrants.’
‘No we don’t,’ said Culshaw. ‘We’ll do very well on our own.’
‘You’ve never done anything on your own,’ said Feldberg. ‘That’s the trouble. You always get someone else to do it for you, don’t you?’ Arnesen bristled at this. Rackham smiled. They were doing his work for him.
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ sneered Culshaw.
‘I’m a member of my party,’ said Feldberg. ‘I imagine your daddy looks after that for you.’ Dent looked at his comrade with alarm. There was poison in the air now. It was not a rehearsal.
‘That’s enough, the pair of you,’ I said. ‘We’re supposed to be learning about democracy.’
‘Perhaps we are,’ said Rackham, blandly.
‘You can’t let Steerman stand, Mr Maxwell,’ said Dent, which was exactly what I was thinking.
‘To exclude him would be undemocratic,’ said Rackham. ‘In any case, the senior staff have raised no objection.’ Dent opened his mouth and thought better of it. He looked at me as if I might intervene. He knew his cause was lost. I doubted whether the senior staff were even aware of the matter, but I was not sufficiently sure to call Rackham’s bluff.
‘Leave it with me, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘I’ll inform you of developments. Dates for the hustings and so on.’ I opened the door and indicated that the boys should leave. Rackham nodded at the still-smirking Steerman, and remained, leaning on a radiator.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, now.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well, quite.’
‘You put the boy up to this?’ I asked.
‘He’s eager for experience.’
‘I bet he is. And what about Gammon?’
Rackham shook his head and laughed.
‘It’s a bit late now to go running to him, isn’t it? And really, when you think about it, and think about Blake’s, would Gammon find the BPP’s views so very eccentric? Anyway, it’s your show. You’re the anointed successor to Captain Carson.’ He smiled as though he was untouchable.
‘What do you get out of this, Rackham?’
‘What? I also serve, of course. Like you. We all have our parts to play here.’
‘You’re not like me.’ I wanted to shove his amused look down his throat. ‘I could go to Gammon now.’
‘And if you did, and if Gammon took your side, the story would be all over the school in five minutes. And if there’s one thing we as a staff do’ – he was quoting Gammon now, imitating that faintly effeminate West Yorkshire accent – ‘it is to maintain a united front. Look around you, Maxwell. All across the city the schools are in uproar and chaos because they’ve gone comprehensive. The university’s a nest of Trotskyists and worse. People can’t cope. Blake’s has to set an example, be a beacon. Otherwise the centre cannot hold. Steerman is speaking for a great many people. Even the dockers agree with Enoch Powell. Perhaps the red-brown convergence is upon us. It’s very stimulating for the boys.’ Rackham nodded as if agreeing with himself. His eyes were bright with amused energy.
‘You’re being very irresponsible,’ I said.
Rackham laughed at this. ‘Really? Well, so be it.’ He made his way to the door, then turned and said. ‘If you’re in doubt, ask yourself what Carson would have done. How would the Goethe of the bookroom have responded?’
‘You’re betraying him, though, aren’t you? Using Steerman as a puppet for some reason. Why? What did Carson ever do to you?’
‘Betrayal? That’s a very complicated idea. And, as I indicated during the meeting, the mock election needs to reflect the politics of the world beyond Blake’s. Or else what does it mean? A democratic charade.’ It was as if a brilliant, spiteful child, unaltered and renouncing none of its claims, had, accompanied Rackham into adulthood.
‘What are you doing with Shirley?’ I asked.
‘Whatever it might be, it’s none of your business. Anyway, I should think you’ve got your hands full as it is. Things could become very difficult for you here if you’re not careful. Don’t rock the boat.’
With that, Rackham was gone. Carson would not have allowed the situation to arise in the first place, I thought. But supposing it had? Posthumous advice was not forthcoming. The distempered bookroom looked grubby and tired in his absence. I must get it tidied up and have it redecorated, always supposing I survived at Blake’s past the end of term.
A moment or two later the bell rang and the corridor filled with noise. I opened the door. There was a crowd of boys outside. Those at the front stepped back as I appeared. They’d been examining a piece of cartridge paper pinned to the door. There was a careful poster paint image of three chevrons – black, red, black – and the phrase: BPP: SOON. What was I supposed to do? Tear it down? The boys stared, expectantly. I told them to get to their lessons. Then, when they had gone, I tore it down. By the end of school half a dozen more had been posted.
NINETEEN
On Friday evening, relieved to escape the noise of battle, I went to the Narwhal as usual. The place was unusually quiet. I sat reading the paper over a pint. The real by-election was approaching and the paper’s editorial line seemed to be that it was a matter of local pride that the government’s tiny parliamentary majority made this an event of national importance, one comparable to the refusal of the city to admit the King during the Civil War. The fact the city had done this, I thought sourly, would be largely unknown to the Chronicle readership – and likely to remain so, since they were more interested in prices at the fish dock, in rugby league and items for sale under five pounds. With such unworthy thoughts I sought to deflect my sour anger from myself. Allingham’s candidacy was barely mentioned.
Claes and Lurch appeared over in the Coffin Bar, followed by a handful of nondescript acolytes. Claes resumed his monologue and unfolded a poster. More in hope than in expectation he showed it to Stan, who held it up critically. There was a murky portrait photograph of General Allingham in uniform and the BPP slogan: ‘SOON’. Stan shook his head and handed it back. He wandered through to where I sat.
‘We don’t put up political posters of any kind,’ he said. He lit a Woodbine. ‘I hear you’re having an election of your own up the road, Mr Maxwell.’
‘I’m afraid we are, Stan.’
‘Is that a good idea? An election now?’
‘It’s meant to be educational, to give the boys an experience of being citizens.’
‘If you say so. And you’ve got the BPP standing? The General’s lot?’ He nodded back at Claes and his sullen entourage.
‘Not me personally, but yes.’
‘You do know what they are?’
‘I think so, Stan.’
He considered me for a minute. ‘I was there, you know, in 1945,’ he said. When they opened that camp. You know the one. We had to bury them in pits.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the films.’
‘Films don’t smell.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Oh, aye, I’m sure you do. Not something to play at, Mr Maxwell. Sure you want them standing in your mock election?’
‘It’s not up to me, Stan.’
‘That’s the trouble, isn’t it? The question of responsibility.’
‘What I’ve got is responsibility without power,�
�� I said. ‘It would be easier if it was the other way on.’
He nodded and finished his cigarette. ‘Well, we’d all like that. Good job we can’t have it.’
Lurch was silently holding up his empty pint glass. The model of impassive courtesy, Stan went through and served him.
Shirley appeared. Claes bought her a Snowball, his own preferred drink. She smiled across the space between us and her companions glanced at me without acknowledgement. There was no sign of Rackham this evening. In any case, as he had so recently informed me, his spare time activities could be no concern of mine.
After a while Smallbone turned up. He ordered a brown ale.
‘So, then, Chief, what’s it about?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything I should know, about this mysterious package? I took it to Binns but they’ve got rid of the X-ray machine in the shoe department. Why wasn’t I told? We live among barbarians.’
‘Do you mind talking a bit more quietly? I hope you’re keeping the item under lock and key.’
‘It’s in the safe with the Belgian rarities.’
‘Very apt. Take it to the cafe in the arcade tomorrow lunchtime. And don’t say any more about it now.’
‘OK,’ he said, doubtfully. ‘You’re serious about this business, aren’t you?’
‘I think so.’
‘What’s in the envelope?’
‘I don’t know and if I did I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Remember what I said. And I don’t want any trouble either.’
‘I’m trying to avoid it myself, Bone, believe it or not.’
He finished his drink. ‘D’you want to go down the town, then?’ he said. ‘There’s bound to be some spare lying about, hoping against hope that two eligible gentlemen of means will turn up to lead them into bad ways.’
‘Not tonight.’ I couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’m knackered and there’s too much to do.’
‘Well. I’ll just have to have your portion as well, then.’ Bone nodded, finished his drink and went off in pursuit of fleshly pleasures, rubbing his hands in a Sid James manner. I admired his staying power and his undented optimism. As he left by the street door, Shirley came in from the bar.
‘Got a light, mister?’ she asked.
‘For you, Shirley, always. You look nice.’
She smiled and did a twirl and climbed on to the stool next to me. She was stoned and finding it all terribly amusing. Beneath the dark fur coat I remembered her finding at a jumble sale years before she was wearing a stylish, rather short red halter-neck dress, as though she’d been expecting to go on somewhere else this evening. I caught Stan’s eye and he brought her a fresh Snowball and a pint for me.
‘That’s very thoughtful, Stephen. They do say you’re a gentleman. But I never see you except now and again in the shop, so I can’t confirm it for myself. You never come round like you used to.’
‘You’re not at your mother’s any more, are you?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know where you live now. Anyway, you don’t seem lonely. With your pals over there, I mean.’
‘Are you jealous, Stevie? Jealous of Mr Rackham?’
‘Cripplingly.’ I smiled. ‘I just don’t know what to do with myself.’
‘He’s a gentleman too, of course.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he is.’
‘Then you could fight a duel. If you’re that keen on me. I could watch from a high tower and let me hair down for the victor to climb up.’ She shook her head. ‘But you’re not that keen, are you? It’s OK, though.’
‘Where is the gentlemanly Mr Rackham tonight?’
‘Dunno.’ She shrugged. ‘We don’t live in each other’s pockets.’ This was Shirley’s version of being at someone’s beck and call, immured in the moated grange of her books and her sewing until someone got in touch. It had been the same when she was going out with me. People would always take advantage of her.
‘Like that, is it?’ I said.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you know what to do if you want things to change,’ she said. ‘You could show me a bit of initiative.’
‘We’re past all that, aren’t we?’
‘Speak for yourself.’ I doubted if she would remember this untypical vehemence tomorrow. We sat in silence for a bit. She finished her drink too quickly. ‘I was sorry about your friend,’ she said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Captain Carson. I was sad to hear what happened to him.’
‘What did happen?’
‘Eh? How d’you mean? Are you taking the piss? He died. It was very sad.’
‘Yes, it was. It was a shock.’
‘Accident. Misadventure. It makes you think.’
I did not reply.
‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘it could happen to any of us. You. Me.’
‘Best not to waste time, then, any of us.’
‘That’s what I meant before. No one’s going to die wishing they’d had more celibacy.’
‘I imagine celibacy has its points.’
‘Oh, you’re hopeless, Stevie.’
‘You’re not alone in thinking that.’ We sat in silence for a while.
‘Of course you were a bit special to Captain Carson,’ she said.
‘He taught me a lot.’
‘So now I suppose – don’t get me wrong – it’s sort of dead men’s shoes for you.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Now I’ve gone and hurt you. I never meant to.’
‘No, no.’
‘You were always a sensitive boy underneath. My mam used to say that. Sorry – I’m just a bit out of it. Can you get us another drink? Brandy and Babycham.’
I did as she asked. Next door Claes and Lurch were leaving. They didn’t look over at us. Shirley made as if to call out to them but changed her mind. She leaned against me and kissed my ear. I moved her gently away.
‘What have you been taking, Shirley?’
‘Too many googoos, that’s for sure. Something for the weekend, eh?’
‘You’ll do yourself a mischief.’
‘Aye, I know. Or somebody will. I’m reading Opium and the Romantic Imagination. It’s dead good. Have you read it? You should. There’s imaginary prisons and all sorts. Have you tried opium? They say it comes in off the boats sometimes down the east docks, but it’s scarce. I’ve never seen it. Rarer than rubies.’
‘No, I haven’t tried it. And you don’t want to be taking stuff like that. You know what it leads to.’
‘OK, sir.’ She grinned. ‘Try anything, me. I mean, I prefer reading but you need a break sometimes.’
‘Your friends have gone, Shirley. You shouldn’t be in here on your own.’
‘I’m not on me own, though, am I? You’re keeping me company like a proper schoolteacher gentleman.’
‘I ought to get off home. I’ve got a lot on.’
‘You can come back to mine if you want. I’ve got some nice draw and some Mandies.’
‘Best not, Shirley.’
‘It’s Friday bloody night, Stevie. You’ve got to have some fun. You’re a long time in the coffin, as me mam likes to say. She should know. Her house is like one.’ Shirley’s attention kept drifting.
‘Since Captain Carson died there’s been a lot to do,’ I said, ‘looking after History, with a temporary replacement to deal with too.’
‘Big boy now.’
‘It’s about time. Don’t you agree?’
‘Taking over from Der Führer.’ She gave a heavy smoker’s cackle.
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Yeah, sorry, Stevie. Something your friend Mr Rackham said. Daft.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘I’m just a bit ratty cos you don’t fancy me any more.’
‘But you’ve got a boyfriend, haven’t you?’
‘Might have. Suppose.’
‘Well, I obviously don’t want to tread on his toes.’
She smirked and shrugged, and stroked the back of my hand with a finger. ‘Did Captain Carson leave you anything?’ she asked.
/>
‘What?’
‘You know. Carson. I thought he might have left you a toucan of his esteem.’ She burst out laughing. ‘A little bird told me.’
‘Which little bird was that?’
‘I forget. There’s always loads of people coming in and out of the shop.’
‘Loads of fascists.’
‘Well, yeah, there’s them. And there’s the wankers.’
‘So was this little bird a fascist or a wanker?’
‘Hard to tell, Stephen. They all look the same after a bit.’
So, I thought, Maggie had let the information slip. I wasn’t surprised. She seemed to have run out of discretion lately. It wouldn’t mean anything to her.
‘So what did he leave you?’ she asked.
‘The odd book. A few thousand books in fact.’
‘Stands to reason.’ Her attention wandered again. ‘Nothing wrong with books. The bright book of life and that. We could take them off your hands. Claes could, I mean.’
‘I’m not sure your wankers would find them of interest.’
‘You never know. People are into all sorts.’
‘Thanks for the thought. Anyway, I’ve got Feldberg’s coming to do the valuation.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She grinned. ‘Feldberg’s, eh? Too good for the likes of us, then. Doesn’t stop you coming into Claes’s shop and poking about. Slumming, are we?’
‘I don’t like you working at Vlaminck’s, Shirley. It’s a dead end.’
‘It suits me, Stephen. Better than some office. Or the fish dock. Or the fucking Elastoplast factory. It’s a bookshop – it’s perfect. For the time being.’ I wondered if she had any other idea of time in mind, for instance the time when she would no longer be young. She nudged me and said in a fruity whisper, ‘I wouldn’t mind being a kept woman, though. In a flat, in me negligee and nylons, smoking French tabs and drinking Pernod. Silk sheets. View of the park. What would you think about that? Probably not on your wages, eh? Patched elbows and mince for dinner.’ I couldn’t help but laugh. She grew serious again. ‘Anyway, it’s none of your business really what I do or who does it to me. You can’t have it both ways. At least Charles has got a few bob.’
‘They’re not good people,’ I said. ‘Claes and his chums.’