A sad-looking middle-aged bloke spoke last. “My kid got killed in Iraq last year.” A murmur of sympathy went round the room. “He went out to do a job and got murdered by one of them, someone who was meant to be on his side. That’s the thanks he got. I went to pieces for a bit then I decided to do something instead. That’s why I’m here.”
Tyler stood up. “Thanks, the three of you. These stories are just a small part of what’s going on. It’s time for some action. We’re sick of having our hands tied by that bitch of a Home Secretary. Every time we plan a big demo she blocks it so instead we’re going to try a new tactic. I’m forming some small action groups who will be sent to different areas of London and appear without warning. That way we keep reminding people we’re here to stay. Those of you who want to be involved stay behind at the end.”
I liked what I was hearing. These people were speaking straight to me and they were out there trying to change things, even the women. I wanted to be part of it so I stayed behind.
Tyler said, “This new campaign needs to stay between us for now, no bragging to friends or girlfriends about what we’re doing. We need to stop the enemy or the press getting hold of it.”
He divided us into small groups. I was with Chris and two other blokes; Billy, the one whose kid had been killed and a geezer called Luke. Chris was named as leader of our group. Tyler told us what we’d be doing but not when; that information would be given to Chris first who’d text us closer to the time. It was like being involved in a secret military organisation. When we’d got our instructions we went down to the bar. People were telling stories about stuff they’d done.
Billy told us about the RNO, another group he’d been involved in.
“The bloke in charge kept putting his foot in it, couldn’t handle the media, it was getting embarrassing. He even started talking to Muslims. That’s when I left and joined the NER. I prefer it. Tyler knows what he’s talking about.”
“What brings you here, mate?” Luke said to me.
“A gang of them mugged my girlfriend, stole her phone and roughed her up, she’s suffering from trauma now.”
It was the first thing that came into my head. I didn’t want him to know I’d been scared.
Then I told him about the beggar and the accordion. “He won’t be playing again, I smashed that fucking box thing to pieces.”
“Well done, sounds like you’re on a mission.”
It was the best time I’d had for ages, like having a big family of people who all thought the same as I did.
6
VALERIE
I made the most of two free days and went to Sheffield. Anton met me at the station and we caught a bus to his place. In a cafe round the corner we ordered coffee and cake.
“Here’s to us, our first professional parts,” he said, clinking his mug against mine.
“I can’t believe I’m going to have a real audience who’ve paid to be there. I’m on stage as often as Richard. It’s going to be intense.”
For a moment I wondered if I could do it. Anton must have seen my expression because he said, “You’ll be fine, Valerie, I’ve got faith in you.”
Later that evening I took my seat near the front of the stalls. When Anton first came on stage I was nervous for him but as soon as he began to sing I knew it would be OK. His voice was rich and low and he held the stage as if he’d been doing it for years. I watched his face and could see how much he was enjoying himself. He’d made the transition from acting student to actor with ease; perhaps I could do it too.
It was snowing when we came out of the theatre. A few centimetres already lay on the pavement and cars. Thinking that the bus might not make it up the hill we started walking back to his flat, our shoes crunching in the dry crispness. I watched as the thick flakes caught in his hair. He bent down and scooped up a ball and threw it at me. I grabbed a fistful and hurled it back and soon we were covered in snow.
“Stop!” I said, laughing. “That one went down my neck, it was freezing.”
He stopped and we linked arms and walked, slipping and sliding slowly up the steep hill to his flat. We stayed up late talking. It was like being at college again but better because now we had real roles to talk about. Later he said, “I’ll sleep in here and you have the bed.”
Through a curtain was a small room with just enough space for a double bed and his clothes. It was organised and tidy, a rail of coloured shirts and shoes neatly stowed underneath. I had a shower in the tiny bathroom that had the smallest basin I’d ever seen. He kissed me goodnight. What he’d said about him and Leila and that it might not work out came back to my mind and I didn’t look at him full on in case my confusion showed. Lying in bed I was aware of him in the other room, so close I could almost hear him breathing.
* * *
Rehearsals lasted for seven weeks. I wanted more time but Lucy said I was ready. We were given our costumes for the dress rehearsal. In the first scene I was wearing a short, flowered dress. I’d never have chosen it in real life but I knew it was right for Chrissie. When Richard, who’d become Paul, walked on stage in his army uniform for the first time, for a moment I thought he really had come back from a war.
As the first night grew nearer I dreamt about being on stage. Sometimes the audience looked happy. Other times strange things happened. Once a crow flew onto the stage in the middle of an important scene. It strutted around pecking at imaginary food. Another time I found Richard backstage with blood pouring from a wound in his leg.
On the morning of the first night I did no more preparation. I went to the cafe in the nearby park. It was a cold, sunny day and the frost on the ground hadn’t yet melted. I drank coffee and ate a croissant and imagined I was a tourist in Paris or Berlin who had nothing particular to do that day.
The curtain opened. I was on stage alone, waiting for Paul to return from a night out. I stood looking out at the audience, holding their collective gaze. A moment later he entered. He was looking for ways to escape what was happening in his mind and I was trying to cope with his moods. All the time we were waiting for a letter saying ‘You are being posted to …’ When it came, he pretended he was sorry but we both knew he wasn’t sorry at all.
The first act flowed and before I knew it the interval came. I changed my costume, had time to drink some water and exchange a few words with Karen, who was playing Paul’s sister, then we started again. At the end of the play I was left on stage alone and began Chrissie’s monologue.
“You’re glad to be going back to where you can feel something, not living with me where there are no shells overhead, no landmines, no comrades to hold your breath with as you lurch over the next lump in the road, no one who shares your terror. Only me, Chrissie, who wants you, but as you used to be, not as you are now.”
I could sense the tension and there was complete silence in the audience. No lines were missed, no props failed, no lights refused to come on.
As the curtain came down I stood between Richard and Karen ready to take our bows, feeling completely present and alive. Dad came into my head but for once it didn’t make me sad; I sensed that he was there, applauding.
Outside Mum and Keri were waiting for me, along with Renee and Bridget, my friend from school.
Bridget said, “I always knew you’d do brilliantly, ever since Hermia.”
* * *
Back at the flat I picked up the photo of Dad, who was standing with his arms folded, smiling, as if he was pleased with me. He was the one who started my love of it all. When I was little he told me stories, African folk tales, English fairy stories, sometimes combining the two, sitting next to the bed, his face illuminated by the lamp, which had pictures of giraffes and elephants on the shade. Sometimes the stories were too scary and I squealed. Mum came into the room to see what the noise was.
“She’ll never get to sleep, Joseph.”
My head was full of goblins, elves, African spirits and princesses, all mixed into one. I started making up my own stories, inventing characters and plots and getting my friends to act them out. Sometimes I surprised Mum and Dad by jumping out from behind the door.
“The Scorpion King sends you good wishes,” I said, with a bow.
Once I overheard Mum whispering to Dad. “She lives in a world of her own.”
“She is fine, she has a good imagination, that’s all,” he said.
At school I found most of the lessons boring and often got told off for whispering to Bridget. When I was twelve I started doing drama. The tutor, Ms Anderson, didn’t seem to mind me talking. She said, “You’re very curious, Valerie, that’s a great thing in life.”
At first we read plays that were hard and cold, full of angry people. I started to wish I hadn’t chosen it but then in the spring term we began A Midsummer Night’s Dream and I was caught up in the world of Shakespeare for the first time. Ms Anderson said there’d be a performance at the end of the year and I let out an excited yelp, which made everyone laugh.
She told us to think about which part we wanted to play because instead of holding auditions she was going to try to let everyone have their chosen role. We wrote down our first, second and third choice on a sheet of paper and gave it to her. She hoped everyone would get their first or second choice. I knew straight away I wanted to be Hermia. I already had an idea of how I might perform her.
The room was buzzing. Bridget said she wanted to play Titania. Sarah turned round and said, “You’ll get that part,” then she said to Debbie, loudly enough for me to hear, “Everyone knows Hermia’s got blonde hair and she’s really pretty, so Valerie can’t play her.”
My head jerked, as if someone had slapped me across the face really hard. I could hear the certainty and hate in her voice. Tears came into my eyes.
Bridget looked at me and whispered, “We should tell Ms Anderson what she said.”
I shook my head. I wouldn’t let anyone else see how much it hurt. I put my head down and squeezed the tears back inside.
Later Ms Anderson read out the list of names and parts.
“Bridget is playing Titania. Valerie is playing Hermia.”
I wanted her to say it again to make sure I hadn’t misheard. Bridget said, “Yes” loudly. At break we tried acting out our parts in the playground, celebrating. I caught the look of disgust on Sarah’s face but I knew I’d won.
From then on I spent hours in my room rehearsing and Mum had to almost drag me out to eat. Sometimes Keri came in to listen, sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs swinging. She always clapped in the wrong place.
Ms Anderson made adjustments to the play so it was shorter but I still had some long speeches.
“My good Lysander! I swear to thee, by Cupid’s strongest bow…” The lines came easily, I learnt how to move, how to become Hermia. Gordon was playing Lysander. He was Scottish and sometimes people teased him because of his strong accent but I thought it sounded nice.
Two days before the performance we were given our costumes. Mine was a long blue dress and a hairband covered in pink and white flowers. Bridget was in white with yellow flowers. Mum said I looked beautiful which made me cry.
The evening passed really quickly. We all remembered our lines, even Debbie and Maya, who always forgot them in rehearsals. I couldn’t believe how exciting it was, everyone in costume and make-up, with proper lighting. I loved being in the centre of the stage, when I was speaking and everyone else was quiet.
Mum, Dad and Keri were all there. Afterwards everyone, all the teachers and parents, gathered around.
Dad said, “Of course Valerie was the real star,” a bit too loudly.
“Ssh, Dad, you can’t say that,” I hissed.
Ms Anderson turned to us and said, “You did very well, Valerie. You could think of choosing drama as a career.”
I already had. This was my world, dressing up, being part of something that put a spell on people.
Soon after that Dad died. I came home from school one day and Grandma opened the door. She said in a serious voice, “Come and be with your mother, Valerie.”
Mum was sitting on the sofa crying. Keri was clinging to her. They said there’d been an accident at work. Dad had been killed when something fell on him. An accident. The words about him not coming back didn’t make sense. He always came back. I didn’t remember much after that. Sometimes at night I heard Mum crying. I missed Dad so much I got pains in my stomach. I missed him hugging me when he got in from work. Most of all I missed his stories.
I studied his face in the photo, shut my eyes and listened for his voice. He said, “I knew you could do it Valerie, I always had faith in you.” I wasn’t going to let him or myself down. I was going to make the most of this chance.
7
JIMMY
Next day Chris, Billy, Luke and me met at the station. On the Tube people looked at us then turned away. I drew myself up, feeling good. Our destination was Walthamstow, meeting place, a small park. Another group was already there. Chris went over and spoke to a tall, thin bloke in a baseball cap. When he came back he said, “So far no one’s got wind of what we’re doing. Soon as they do they’ll call the cops. If it kicks off you have my permission to defend yourselves. Any way you like.”
Adrenaline was running through me. I buttoned my jacket, ready.
“We’re going to move towards the target. When we get to the end of this road we fan out. Our group heads for Market Road, the others go down Claremont Street. That puts us at either end of the high street then we start marching towards each other. Make as much noise as you can. The aim is to intimidate.”
We walked past rows of terraced houses with weird symbols hanging in the windows. The main street was full of Pakis, going about their lives as if they owned the place. We pulled our flags out from our coats and lifted them up, a sea of red and white, and began chanting, “England for Whites. Pakis and blacks go home. No Sharia law. Repatriation now.”
People were turning to stare. Women held onto their children and moved out of our way. A group of men in white dresses and lace hats were walking up the road; we stood in a line blocking them. They tried to push through us but we stood our ground. They moved to one side and we blocked them.
“Piss off man. What the fuck are you doing?” one of them said.
“This is our country, we don’t want your laws here,” I said.
“We don’t want racists in this borough,” another one said.
He started pushing up his sleeves and I saw the muscles in his arms. Fear jumped into my throat.
I yelled, “Fuck off,” and he took a swing at me, he missed and I ran at him, throwing all my weight against him. He lost his footing, fell into the road and a car had to swerve to avoid him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Chris fighting with someone. All around was shouting. Horns sounded. It was mad. I hit another in the stomach and saw the shock on his face. Someone hurled a bottle and it hit one of the Pakis on the side of the head. I saw blood coming down. It was like a war. A fist came at me, I tried to dodge it but felt a sharp blow in my ribs and the next thing I knew I was on the pavement. I pulled myself up, dazed. Chris was kicking a man on the ground.
At that moment I heard sirens and saw blue flashing lights at the end of the street.
Chris shouted, “Run,” and we scattered. I followed him down a side street. When we got far enough away we slowed down.
“Fucking hell, did you see their faces? They were scared as shit,” I said, panting.
“I hammered one of them in his gut, he won’t be eating any curry tonight,” Chris said, laughing his head off.
We were pumped up and triumphant, joking and messing about on the way back to south-east London. We met up with the others at the pub. There was stuff on
the local news about the disturbances; the Home Secretary saying it was unacceptable. We heard that Luke and another geezer had been arrested – they’d gone the wrong way down one of the streets and bumped into the police.
“Collateral damage. Anyway, they’ll probably get off with a caution. We did a good job,” Chris said, downing his pint and calling for another.
It was after midnight when we left. We hung around outside for a while smoking and congratulating each other. We walked back to the estate. For once I didn’t notice what a shithole I was living in.
* * *
Tyler’s right-hand man was arrested on a charge of inciting racial hatred. It was bollocks of course – all he was doing was defending our rights but it meant that Tyler started relying on Chris and me more. I’d never had any power in my life and now the boss of the NER thought I was someone.
Ten of us were meeting in our usual place, just the people that Tyler most trusted. There was something he wanted to discuss but we had to make sure no one else heard about it. The AF – Anti-Fascists – were always on our case. They were mad and fearless. They were good at surveillance and infiltration so we had to be on our toes.
Tyler said, “This spineless government is trying to box us in but I’ve got ideas about how to proceed.”
He took a drink of orange juice. He never drank alcohol, said he needed to keep a clear mind for the battles ahead.
“I want you to organise a flash mob, film it and put it on YouTube; we need to use social media to spread the word. So long as it isn’t illegal we can do what we like. Free speech in this country. Tell the membership there’ll be an event soon then give two hours’ notice on the day. That way we’re less likely to get stopped. Chris and Jimmy, you’re in charge.”
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