The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  Across the road a large black car – a Humber – had drawn up. One of the guards hurried down to open the rear door. A man in an immaculate black military-style uniform got out and sprinted up the steps, brushing past the group waiting to greet him. His aide carrying a large attaché case under one arm and a bundle of legal papers bound with red ribbon under the other, lagged behind. As the car door slammed shut he placed the case and documents on the bonnet and stretched stiffly before running a hand through his hair. On the portico above the entrance a dark flag stirred in the gusts of warm air that wafted across from the nearby parade ground of the Duke of York’s barracks, lifting whirlpools of dust and ruffling the leaves of the plane trees.

  Tony was convinced he knew the man with the case; he had met him in Manchester. Eric had introduced them he was sure. While the tall distinguished man in the uniform could have been the leader of their party. It certainly looked like him from behind but then he’d only caught a fleeting glimpse. The one other time he had seen Oswald Mosley was on stage in the spotlight, making a speech. He was sure he’d be luckier in the next few days, being this close to the very top. He had made the right decision to come South.

  A double-decker bus pulled up outside blocking the view and casting a shadow throughout the bar. Passengers hurried down the stairs. It looked like they were getting off to come into the pub and a couple of them did, letting in through the open door a babble of voices and the noisy bustle of the street. The conductor shouted “there’s plenty of room on top,” as he swung himself back onto the platform at the back of the bus and rang the bell.

  Politics and pints or pints and politics, Tony was unsure in what order they came in his life, but they had given him purpose and he was glad. For once he believed he was happy. Tony smiled smugly to himself. He rolled a cigarette and spat the loose strands of tobacco into the ashtray next to him on the table. It took him a couple of attempts to clear the fragments from his lips and his mood jarred.

  “Bugger.”

  Discomposure made him nervous and there was a moment of doubt. He could have come down for the march like the rest of them and have caught the night train back to Blackpool after the rally. But Eric, he felt, was a good friend. He would look after him, see him right, introduce him to people who could make a difference. Tony didn’t see himself as overly ambitious, but knew this was an opportunity, maybe his only chance, to do something with his life. It had fallen into his lap. He hadn’t gone out looking for it. Wouldn’t have known how. It didn’t run in the family to push yourself forward. Now he believed he was at the centre of a vital political movement. Or close at least. The beating heart, he knew, was in that building across the road.

  The Black House had taken over his life in recent months. Orders and directives arrived almost every week at his home in Blackpool. Party business made increasing demands on him. He was busy most evenings and his parents were pleased at the direction he was taking. He was emerging from his shell, making friends, and receiving important-looking letters and packages from London. It was such a difference from before, when he’d spent his time moping round the house, sleeping late, drinking too much and making no effort. His whole family was glad things were looking up for him. His parents and brother had even come along to a couple of local Party rallies. His mother had been impressed, he could see that, even though she didn’t say much. His father though, hadn’t been convinced and Tony sensed he’d stay away in future – he’d not ask too many questions, would keep his head down, anything for a quiet life. But Brian was different, he appeared convinced by the arguments and was his first recruit to the Party. Tony was proud of that achievement, even though Brian was his younger brother and other members had laughed at him when this simple truth had come out during a meeting. One new recruit was more than most of them had managed and he now had many more to his credit. Such things mattered, they were noticed he was sure.

  Now he was across from the Black House, making his first visit to the capital. He was in his early twenties and was going somewhere. His father had only ever been to London twice. The first time on the way to France and he had spent the day seeing the sights – Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament. The second time he couldn’t have seen anything even if he’d wanted too, a gas attack in the trenches had blinded him. He had spent ten days in Charing Cross hospital on his way back from Ypres, before being sent to sit out the war in a minor stately home on a cliff top in South Wales. His sight was eventually restored, but it was not good enough for him to return to his accountancy job at “Cox and Sons”, a local food wholesalers run by his uncle. The firm had looked after him – everybody agreed about that – and given him work behind the counter at one of their general stores on Greenborough Road, just round the corner from where he lived in Blackpool. His father always said, “Many others who served alongside me didn’t do as well. I’ve been lucky.”

  Tony hated to hear him speak in that way. What he said was true, he supposed, but it was so complacent, so accepting of the state of things. His dad was easily the equal of his uncle, who had stayed at home – “to keep the grocery business going” – while his father had volunteered and been shipped off to France. It rankled that his father never saw it as unfair the way his life had worked out and it angered Tony that whenever he tried to tell him so, the conversation would inevitably turn into a tirade by his father against his own failings. Tony had enjoyed school and done well in his exams, but since leaving several years ago he hadn’t achieved a great deal. Any number of odd jobs for “Cox and Sons”, but he had no desire to work there all his life, and they’d never offered him anything permanent. Tony often thought, “one Cox hanger-on was probably enough for them.”

  There had been offers of apprenticeships – people felt sorry for his father and what the family had been through. One in particular making bleach had led to Tony’s first serious row with his parents. It was a small firm and the job had prospects. Showing willing he had looked round the premises, but the air was foul and the smell of the chemicals overpowering and he’d turned it down, saying he wasn’t any good with his hands.

  “You’re a waster, a total waster”, his father had shouted at him getting slowly to his feet, clutching the arm of his chair, positioned as always perilously close to the fire. He never quite looked at his son, or so it seemed, but slightly to the left and above his head. It helped somehow, Tony thought, as it appeared he wasn’t really talking to you.

  “Do you think we can go on paying for ever, feeding and clothing you, putting a roof over your head. Isn’t that the case mother? You need to think again my lad. I’d been out and got some qualifications and was earning a living by your age.”

  He slumped into his chair and stared into the flames. It was early evening and there was a blazing, sickly sunset. The lights were not yet on and the room was bathed in a lurid pink aura. His mother was correct when she said “You’re not listening are you Tony? You’re miles away as usual, but your father’s dead right, you’ve got to do something. We won’t throw you out on your ear. Dad wants to, you know, but over my dead body, I tell him. You’ve got to do something.”

  Tony had no idea what that might be. He had retreated to “The White”, taken the edge off his frustration with a few pints and set himself up for a long hike along the seafront to Fleetwood and back as he’d done on many occasions before. It had been about this time, maybe even that same evening, as he walked looking at the sea, watching the distant breakers across the vast moon-steeped expanse of sand, that he had first felt the need to talk to someone. On a quiet night you could hear the faint whisper of the waves, but at this season of the year natural sounds were crowded out by the hordes of holidaymakers swarming along the promenade, shouting and laughing over the ringing clatter of trams. Their raucousness was hard to ignore, yet in his solitude all Tony could hear was the rushing tide.

  He went to church almost every week. It kept his mother happy and he f
ound it a structured distraction from the randomness of his days. The Reverend James Evans was a Blackpool FC supporter, like Tony, had even had a trial period as an apprentice with the club when he was young. Had broken his toe in one of the practice matches and never regained his form, or so he said. This was all they talked about during their first “little chat.” His mother had suggested it.

  “If you can’t talk to your father, how about the vicar? He’s not that much older than you. Go and see him, love. It can’t do any harm.”

  He hadn’t of course. The vicar came to him. It was the day of the local derby with Preston North End. Blackpool had won two-one. Tony was distracted and happy – he’d enjoyed the match – and was leaving the stands at Bloomfield Road, already in “The Rose”, in mind if not body, when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

  “What a match. Jimmy Hampson is truly one of the greats.”

  The Reverend Evans was elated, his cheeks glowing red. He looked to Tony as if he had been out on the pitch himself for the ninety minutes. He couldn’t help smiling.

  “The closest thing Blackpool has ever come to having its own saint,” Tony said. Quickly adding, “so they say.”

  James Evans laughed.

  “I’ll have to see what I can do. It would certainly boost the attendances down at St Michael’s.”

  Then almost to himself he chuckled.

  “The two Jimmy’s playing a blinder for Jesus.”

  Then to Tony.

  “Don’t tell your mother I said that, or anyone else I know for that matter. Your mother said you wouldn’t mind a chat. I’m off to Marco’s for a coffee, do you want to come? I treat myself on a Saturday you know.”

  They’d met a few times after that, once in “The White”, saloon bar of course, but Tony had been impressed by the sincerity of the man. They had talked about football, fishing, his parents and, of course, what he was going to do in the future had come up. But the Reverend Evans was good at his job and Tony hadn’t minded in the least, hadn’t felt the ache in the temples, the tension in the stomach that he usually did when his family mentioned the subject. He hadn’t even laughed when the vicar had casually introduced the idea of joining the church.

  “How about it? It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.”

  Tony had listened.

  “Why not?” was his initial reaction. They’d talked a little about the practicalities. James had contacted a friend at his old college and sounded him out. Things would probably have gone further if Tony hadn’t stumbled across a different path.

  Eric Baines was an inspiration and, Tony believed, his friend. He’d met him recently in Manchester. In two hours in the “Castle Arms” Eric changed his life. Tony, for the first time, saw a future for himself and began to believe he could achieve something worthwhile. He described it as his “blinding light on the road to Damascus.” His mother said he was a “daft bugger” every time he mentioned it; his father, who had given up going to church years before, said he should stop talking nonsense and that he would get the vicar to make him see sense. Meeting Eric had been the most exciting night of his life.

  Blackpool Central to Manchester Piccadilly by train took a little over an hour. Tony occasionally made the journey at weekends. It got him away from his parents. He stayed overnight with Uncle Alf and Aunt Enid in a small flat above their fish and chip shop in Droylsden. He used to come home smelling of beer, cigarettes and lard and was always packed off to the baths on Monday morning. His mother pushing him out of the house with the words, “I don’t know how Enid stands it, she always used to be so tidy when she was young.”

  Alf was still a Blackpool fan, even after living away for thirty years, and Tony always visited him when the “Seasiders” played either Manchester City or United. In the evening after the match they sometimes went to a lecture or concert at the Free Trade Hall, but more often he accompanied his uncle to Stonybrook Workingman’s club. Alf said it was an excuse to get out, Enid said he was a “lazy old sod,” disappearing on the busiest evening of the week. Tony was not sure if she liked him visiting, but she never said anything.

  Uncle and nephew got on well, could talk about anything, and enjoyed their time together. Tony was treated like the son Alf never had and always felt a twinge of guilt when he told his father what they’d been up to. The two men couldn’t have been more different: his father tall, gaunt-featured, solitary much of the time, uncommunicative and depressed; his uncle short, stocky, a round cheerful, smiling face and never one to hold back with his opinions. So Tony was not surprised when one weekend in March Alf said, “How about coming to a political meeting with me? You might enjoy it and you’ll certainly learn something. It’ll last a couple of hours that’s all.”

  Tony had rarely heard Alf talk in detail about politics and he’d never suggested going to a meeting before. It was true he’d recently started occasionally mentioning the New Party over a pint. “Their policies made a lot of sense,” he reckoned, “Understood the small businessman while Labour had missed that golden opportunity. Mosley was a clever man and one hell of a speaker he’d heard.” But Tony had thought nothing of it, having no particular interest himself. He supposed he was a Labour supporter like his whole family.

  “Action! Action here and now! That’s their slogan. And about bloody time, something needs doing,” Alf, to Tony’s surprise, gripped his arm as he spoke.

  “They didn’t do too badly for a new party in Ashton last election. Held on to their deposit and shook things up a bit,” he went on. His uncle rarely got this animated about anything other than football and the price of fish and potatoes.

  “Mosley really caused a stir here in Manchester the last time he came. I wish I’d gone along. Come on, Tony, a bright boy like you should get something out of it. I’d like to know what you think.” He smiled, “There’s always a lively crowd when he speaks and there’s been quite a lot about him in the paper. We could have a couple of pints before we go in, then pie and chips on the way home. It would be a good night out. Go on.”

  It was a cold evening. Tony had thought so when they were waiting for the bus, watching cigarette smoke mingle with the misting breath of the crowd huddling in the shelter. He knew so as they walked up Windmill Street to the Free Trade Hall. He should have worn his thick overcoat and brought his gloves, but it was too late now. Smiling he remembered his mother’s last words to him as he had left that morning. “You daft lump take your coat. You’ll catch your death. It’s mid-March. It’s still winter. You’ve no sense, never have had.” Waving he’d ignored her and she had stood wiping her hands on her apron, watching him walk down the street until he disappeared round the corner.

  There were at least a hundred people jostling to get in when they arrived at the main entrance to the Hall. They weren’t late and it looked as if it was going to be a full house. There were policemen standing in groups of two and three outside the building and on the pavement on the opposite side of the road. Several others were trying to stop the crowd from pushing against a barrier that had been erected at the bottom of the flight of steps leading up to the foyer. Individuals were being allowed to pass along in single file. Tony caught a glimpse of two tall men in distinctive black uniforms ushering people through the swing doors. They joined what they thought was the end of the queue and moved slowly forward.

  Uncle Alf said there had been talk of an earlier march across the centre of town in military formation. He would have liked to have taken part, but they couldn’t have left the shop any earlier than they did and so would have to make do with the speeches. Tony was disappointed as he enjoyed army parades. He had once thought of joining up, but his father had, not surprisingly, been against it. Or rather, his opposition had been a surprise, given how much he claimed he wanted Tony out the house doing something worthwhile. Enlisting would have been a perfect way to annoy his father even more, but Tony had never got round to it.

  They had
made it through the doors and out of the cold, when the garrulous man in front of them was stopped and one of the officials in black started going through his pockets. He did not object but continued singing softly under his breath and swaying gently from side to side. Tony was not surprised when two bottles of stout were discovered deep in the lining of his heavy overcoat.

  “You can’t take these in there sunshine. There’s no drinking inside and more’s the point there’s no weapons allowed.”

  Both the security men laughed as a couple more in identical black uniforms joined them from the stairs off to the right. The drunk lurched to one side and tried to push his way past, calling out, “Let me go. I’ll lose track of my mates. Hold up there Stan.”

  He waved to a couple up ahead who were waiting on the stairway and turned round. It was over in a second. His outstretched arm was twisted behind his back, the other was grasped by the wrist and elbow and he was bodily lifted off the ground and carried out through a side door, the toes of his black hobnail boots bouncing rhythmically across the dark red carpet. The door swung backwards and forwards, then shimmered to a halt. The silence held for a second. Tony and Alf were impressed by the slick efficiency of the bouncers.

  “I’m sorry lads, we can’t be too careful. Let his sort in and who knows what will happen. If you don’t mind.”

  Tony raised his arms, thinking there was no need for an apology. The search over, he stepped forward into the ornate foyer and waited for Alf. A young man handed him a flyer.

  “Read this mate, it’ll interest you. Tells you why this Government’s selling us out here in Lancashire. And what can be done to get our people back to work. Most important is what you can do about it.”

  Tony murmured, “Thanks.”