by Joe Layburn
From a pocket in his quilted coat, Brian had produced the small pair of binoculars he took with him when he went to the races. When I was younger he’d let me play with them. But he wasn’t in the mood for fun and games now. As he passed the binoculars to my dad, Brian wore the look of an angry and confused gorilla.
“You ain’t gonna believe this, George,” he said. “But it’s kids. Must be a thousand of ’em.”
Dad squinted through the binoculars.
“Well I’ll be. . .” he muttered.
“What do you want to do, boss?” Brian asked him.
I sensed that about five hundred members of the British Fascist Party were extremely interested in the answer to that question.
Finally Dad let out a weird laugh.
“What do I want to do, Brian? I want to march right up to them and tell them to go and play somewhere else. And if they don’t agree to that, I’m going to march right over them. We’ve come too far to be stopped by a bunch of children.”
He flashed an angry look in my direction. For a second I wondered if he’d thought that this was somehow my doing. Then he shouted hoarsely at his followers as if they were a gang of football hooligans about to charge at rival fans. He might have been wearing a smart suit but suddenly he looked far from respectable. The veins stood out in his neck and his eyes looked like they might pop out of their sockets.
“Come on. . !” he shouted, and it sounded like a war cry.
Then he started jogging towards them. We all did. All five hundred of us.
MELISSA
I won’t say I wasn’t scared, because I was, especially when the Fascists started running towards us. But I felt strong. Kele was on one side of me and – the most amazing thing – Fatima was on the other. She held onto my arm because, as everyone knows now, she’s blind and she needs someone to guide her when she goes outside. But you sort of forget that she can’t see because she’s so calm and intelligent and powerful. That’s why so many people joined her in Cable Street that day.
I couldn’t believe how many had come. We filled up the road from one side to the other and when I looked behind me, there was this huge sea of faces all lined up close together. It was as if the entire crowd at a pop concert in a big stadium had been dropped down into this one narrow street. No way was anyone going to get through us. And that’s what it said on this huge banner some of the children were carrying: ‘They Shall Not Pass’.
I squeezed Fatima’s hand.
“You always said we’d meet up when the time was right. So can you talk to all these kids in your head?”
Fatima laughed, and it was a lovely sound like a musical instrument might make.
“No, Melissa. Most of these children have come because they listened to people like you. The word has spread, and not just by thought-waves.”
It was really nice of Fatima to praise me like that. The truth was that of all the kids in my class, only Kele and the two Russian boys had come. But I suppose that was a start, and look where it had finished – with maybe a thousand of us here in Cable Street.
As the Fascists got closer and closer we all went quiet. They were running together in a rhythm, like they thought they were American marines or something. When we’d come out of the housing estate and filled up the road, we’d been buzzing like bees flying out of a hive. Now you couldn’t hear anything apart from kids shuffling nervously from one foot to the other and the sound of the Fascists’ boots.
When they were a few metres away from what Fatima called our “human barricade”, they just stopped. Some of them looked big and proper-hard but I think they couldn’t work out whether to hit us or laugh at us. We were only kids, after all.
Then Fatima let go of me and took one step forward. It was almost funny to try and guess what the Fascists made of her – this small, skinny, blind girl in a headscarf. Of course, any one of them could have picked her up like a doll and smashed her until she lay still on the ground. But they didn’t, they just stared at her.
Finally she spoke out loud. It was her usual greeting, but this time it was in her actual voice.
“My name is Fatima. I know that you can hear me.”
GEORGIE
The moment she said her name, Dad swung round and looked at me. He was out of breath from running and couldn’t speak at first. Mind you, what we saw in Cable Street that day was enough to leave anyone speechless. We’d spotted this huge crowd of kids from a long way off. But now we were only a few metres away from them, they appeared to be led by a frail girl in a headscarf with sightless eyes. Like my dad, she seemed to have brought a bodyguard or two along with her as well as the hundreds of children who now blocked our way. The most striking of them was this giant black girl who glared at us, daring anyone to make a move towards her smaller friend.
Dad took a few more seconds to compose himself, then he flashed his most winning smile at Fatima and the throng of children behind her.
“Good morning to you, Fatima, darling. It’s lovely to meet you, but you’re giving me and my friends here a bit of a problem. And I’d like to sort it out as quickly as possible.”
“You are George Smith, the fascist?”
Dad laughed.
“I’ve been called a lot worse than that, but yes, I am George Smith, the fascist. Now I really need you and your friends to run along and play somewhere else.”
Fatima rose up to her full height.
“Do not talk down to us, Mr Smith. We know why you’re here. You want to march along Cable Street. You want to frighten people and tell them they’re not welcome in this country. But as our banner says, you shall not pass.”
A shadow seemed to move across Dad’s features.
“Don’t be silly, young lady. You won’t be able to stop my boys if I unleash them. At the moment they’re being very patient. But if I ask them to run at you, I promise they’ll do it. And a lot of you will get very badly hurt.”
He raised his voice to address all the children who were blocking the street.
“Is that what you lot want? Do you want to get hurt? Or do you want to just walk away from here and get on with your lives?”
A tall, long-limbed black boy who looked like a basketball player shouted back at my dad.
“We ain’t going nowhere, Smith. Look at the size of this crowd. You won’t be marching through us today. There’s too many of us. It ain’t going to happen.”
I could see that Dad was starting to lose it and I feared what would happen next.
“All right kids,” he said. “You asked for it. . .”
He lifted his right arm like an old-time general about to command his troops to advance, but before any words could pass his lips, Fatima spoke again.
“Wait! Why don’t you ask your son what he thinks before you charge at us.”
Dad let his arm drop to his side. I felt that everyone was suddenly staring at me. Then Fatima’s voice was in my head, calm and soothing.
Don’t be afraid, Georgie. You know what you must do. It’s time to choose which side you’re on. Come across. Come and join us.
I looked at my dad and then at Fatima. She had spread out her arms in a beckoning gesture. We were only a few metres apart but I knew if I started walking towards her, it would be the most important journey I’d ever make. On one side of this no-man’s-land was my dad who I still loved despite everything. On the other was a new world that I found I could no longer hate.
Come, Georgie. It’s time to do what’s right.
And so I walked.
I don’t know how many steps it took, but it felt as if I was moving through a slow-motion dream. And then I was there. I’d crossed over. I was standing next to Fatima, looking back at the Fascists and my dad.
“Georgie, what the hell are you doing? Come back here now!” he roared.
I shook my head
“I’m tired of your hatred and your fear of anything different, Dad. And d’you know what, all this stuff about keeping the white race pure – it’s histor
y. You’re living in the past. When you look at us, you’re looking at the future. These kids are the future of our country, whatever their colour or religion. And I’m standing with them now, whether you like it or not.”
My dad scanned the faces of the children around me – white, brown, black, pretty much every shade of skin there is to be found. Then he fixed me again with those famous blue eyes.
“That was quite a speech, Georgie boy. Maybe you should think of going into politics.”
I looked at his bodyguards, Brian, Mart and Tony. Their eyes were all on Dad, waiting for him to tell them what to do. I could hear the wail of police sirens now, coming closer to Cable Street. No doubt the press photographers would find their way here soon.
“It’s up to you, Dad,” I shouted. “You can try and fight your way through if you like, but we won’t just lie down and let you walk all over us. And that won’t look good on the TV or in the newspapers – a bunch of fascists wading into a crowd of kids.”
Brian was scowling at me from across the divide. I could see he was weary of waiting for something to happen. And many of the other Fascists were getting agitated and muttering amongst themselves.
“Come on, boss, make a decision,” he boomed. “What are we going to do?”
My Dad stared at Brian as though he no longer recognised him. Then he looked one last time at me. His face was pale and strained, and he suddenly seemed much older. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
“OK, Georgie, I know when I’m beaten. You and your new mates have won this battle. I’m going home.”
For a second I could hear cries of anger and confusion from some of the Fascists close by him. But they were soon drowned out by an enormous cheer from behind me. It washed over us all like the noise of a football crowd when a crucial goal has been scored, but it kept on coming. And then I realised why. The Fascists were retreating, in small groups at first. But soon, like a receding tide, they all began trudging back the way they had come. In amongst them was my dad, fists thrust deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Some of the Fascists jostled him and swore at him. They jabbed their fingers in my direction. No doubt they blamed him for raising a son like me – a boy who had grown up to betray them all.
It suddenly struck me that my dad might never speak to me again, and the thought crushed the life out of me. My lungs seemed to stop working properly. I found myself panting for air.
That’s when the first rock hit me. It didn’t even hurt, it just bounced off my shoulder. Then I felt the children who were pressing closely around me sway backwards. Stones, rocks, even bits of brick, were suddenly raining down on us. A breakaway group of Fascists, led by Brian, Dad’s bodyguard, had found a builders’ skip full of rubble and were lobbing chunks of it in our direction.
“You asked for this!” Brian shouted, his fat face throbbing with hate. I realised with a shiver that he was glaring directly at me.
“This is what you muppets wanted. So this is what you’re going to get.”
As more stones and lumps of rubble fell, panic spread amongst the children and gaps started opening in our human barricade. I saw two girls fall clutching their heads. They got to their feet again but they were screaming and there was blood too.
“We’ve got to stand firm,” I cried. “Once the police get here, they’ll give up. We’ve just got to hold for a few more minutes.”
A convoy of police cars and vans was speeding towards us from the City end of Cable Street but Brian and the fifty or so remaining Fascists continued to hurl their makeshift weapons of bricks and stones.
“Stand firm, all of you!” I shouted again. “We mustn’t let them pass.”
But suddenly the big black girl who’d been standing with Fatima let out a terrifying shriek as though she herself had been hit. Other children gasped.
A rock, bigger than a man’s fist, had struck Fatima on the side of the head. She fell like a small fluttering bird that had dropped out of the sky, then lay motionless in the middle of Cable Street.
Almost at once, I was aware of a strange vibration in the air, a humming sound, as hundreds of worried voices called her name telepathically. Nothing came back from her. She lay totally still, her face obscured by her headscarf.
Finally, the first police vans pulled up with a screech of their tyres. Dozens of officers jumped out and began wrestling with the last of the Fascists. I saw Brian lumbering off across some scrubland. They hadn’t breached our lines. We had held firm. But at what cost?
Three paramedics in fluorescent yellow uniforms pushed through the crush of anxious children to Fatima’s crumpled body. I suddenly felt as though my head had been drained of blood, that I too might drop down onto the ground that Fatima had done so much to defend. Cable Street had seen another famous victory, but all I could think about was that she was badly injured, or worse.
The paramedics lifted her onto a stretcher then carried her to their yellow and green London ambulance. They moved slowly and solemnly. Their grim faces left little doubt in my mind: Fatima was dead.
The crowd of children pressed close to the doors of the vehicle as they clunked shut. Many of them were crying, including the big black girl whose whole body shuddered as she sobbed.
“I was meant to protect her,” she howled. “It was me that was meant to look after her.”
I saw a skinny, dazed-looking Asian boy I hadn’t noticed before. Suddenly, he began to hammer with his fists on the side of the ambulance. His voice was shrill and full of pain.
“I’m her brother. You’ve got to let me go with her. You’ve got to let me in.”
It seemed the ambulance crew were ignoring him. The driver had switched on the flashing blue lights and was starting to pull away. But then one of the doors swung open and Fatima’s brother clambered inside.
Everyone stepped back as the ambulance sped off. All I could hear now was children weeping and the siren’s desperate wail. From Fatima, there was nothing.
Bitterness began to bubble up inside me like poison. Fatima’s death was my dad’s fault. He might as well have thrown the rock himself. If he hadn’t brought his fascist thugs to Cable Street, she would still be alive. He’d come here dressed in his smart suit and coat, but he was a thug just like the rest of them. I loathed him, despised everything he believed in. I no longer cared if we never spoke again.
And then I heard Fatima’s voice inside my head once more.
At first it was so soft I thought I must be imagining it. Suddenly there was no room inside me for anything but joy.
You’re being too hard, Georgie. It’s time to forgive now. Time to make things right.
You’re alive? I bounced the thought right back in her direction.
I’m bruised and I feel dazed, but I’m sure I will be fine.
“She’s alive.” I whispered. Then I started to shout it until my lungs felt close to bursting. “She’s alive! Fatima’s alive! She’s going to be all right!”
My words were taken up by the children who’d been milling around in shock on Cable Street. They radiated further, like ripples on the surface of the Thames, stretching out across London and beyond. I became aware of thousands of minds all linked together; all thinking the same thought; all rejoicing as one.
She’s alive! Fatima is alive!
We had won and Fatima was alive. But she could so easily have been killed – an innocent girl murdered by extremists. Despite my elation, the anger I felt for my dad began to flare again.
Of course, Fatima would have none of it. And as she spoke, I felt my rage dying down, at least for now.
Georgie, I’ve told you already, it’s time to forgive! We have touched many hearts this day and I believe your father too will change. You have sown a seed in his mind, Georgie. Remember, flowers can grow in stony places.
ABOUT THE STORY
People have asked what drew me to the Battle of Cable Street as a subject for my latest book. Well firstly, it’s not as widely-known as it should be, eve
n though it’s a great example of people from different backgrounds coming together to fight racism. Also, although I’m not Jewish, it feels personal to me.
My grandma grew up in a little terraced house off Cable Street in London’s East End. The world she knew was poor and grimy and noisy, but she loved it. And for her it was made richer by the Jewish people who lived around her. She loved their exotic foods and the sights and sounds of their markets. Most of all she loved her best friend, Edie Cohen, who lived a few doors away and who happened to be a Jew.
My grandma’s family had lived in the East End for as many generations as anyone could remember, and she was fiercely proud of it. She grew up alongside children who had come from all over the world: Irish, Italians, Chinese and Indians, as well as Jews from Russia, Poland and Romania. To men like the British fascist leader Sir Oswald Mosley, these children were unwelcome. To my grandma they were East Enders, just like her, who were simply trying to make a life.
As for me, I grew up with three adopted brothers: one black, one white, one brown. Like all brothers, we fought at times but we always stuck up for each other. And we loved each other as much as any of the so-called blood brothers we knew. People say that blood is thicker than water. I don’t believe that.
My family background has had a big influence on my attitudes to the multicultural country we live in, as well as the kind of stories I want to write. Above all, I believe in the idea that we’re all in it together, whatever the colour of our skin.
Read on for an exclusive preview
of the first chapter of
OMAR
When I first heard his voice, late that autumn night, my nerves were already messed up. Whitechapel High Street, eleven o’clock. A drunken old tramp had just lurched across the pavement towards me like a wild-eyed zombie. There was even a ghostly mist in the damp East London air. It felt as if I was walking through the set of a cheap horror film.