The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  As they passed through the narrow passageway into the stalls he crumpled the leaflet and pushed it into his pocket. A babble of voices enveloped them. The auditorium was over half full and there were a good number of people behind them waiting to get in. They moved down towards the stage. Tony glanced up into the circle and saw black-shirted stewards standing at regular intervals along the front of the balcony. Behind them he could see people slipping into their seats and thought, “A popular man, this Mosley”. With some surprise he also noticed that many of the rows were occupied by men and women in formal evening wear. One of them, a blond-haired man, his long white scarf trailing, was leaning out precariously over the edge of the balcony, trying to read the large sign that hung below him. As Tony drew level he could read the words “Lancashire Awake” and almost called out, but he held back. On the opposite side of the hall a similar banner exhorted the audience to “Mind Britain’s business.”

  Tony and Alf found two empty seats close to the central aisle in the middle of the concert hall. The house lights were up. It was chilly and most people had their overcoats on. The air was heavy with the smell of damp wool and mothballs. In the orchestra pit, hidden from view, a small string ensemble began playing Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March number 3 in C minor. The music’s pinched air of repressed solemnity imbued Tony’s heightened sense of expectation with a feeling of invulnerability that made a profound and indelible impression on him. He would remember the moment as the true beginning of his quest.

  The stage was bare except for a speaker’s rostrum covered in a dark standard. A spotlight picked out a gold emblem comprised of an axe and a bound bundle of wooden sticks circled in black. The huge organ at the back of the stage was draped in a vast Union Jack, obscuring all but a couple of gleaming brass pipes that framed the flag.

  The hall was filling up rapidly. As they stood to allow three young men in brown leather jackets to squeeze past them into empty seats further down their row, Alf nudged Tony.

  “A couple of minutes to go. They’ll start on time I know it.”

  It was almost seven-thirty according to the large clock on the rear wall of the hall.

  “Something’s happening already. Look, who are these people?”

  Two columns of men in black collarless shirts and dark trousers, a few with medals on their chests, were marching slowly down the central aisle. Heads turned and the babble of voices dimmed. Tony noticed the orchestra had stopped playing and the space seemed darker. His excitement swelled, as it always did in anticipation of a performance – lights fading and the first images flickering on the screen – and he strained to see what was going on. The men in black had halted and were standing to attention almost shoulder to shoulder on both sides of the aisle. They had their backs to the audience blocking Tony’s view. The Free Trade Hall had fallen silent. Now was the time, he felt it intensely, now was the moment for action. Tony held his breath. Seconds passed, but nothing happened. He exhaled, the woman next to him coughed, across the hall, feet began shuffling. A few rows behind an old man stood up and took off his coat. “Sit down,” someone snarled, but the man was looking through his pockets. He was irritated, “I need my glasses, give me a chance.” One of the men in Tony’s row, one of those in a leather jacket stood up and shouted, “Don’t you…”

  A fanfare drowned him out. Two spotlights flared from high above the stage. The audience turned in the direction of the main door. The men in uniform stiffened, coming to attention. Then with a slow deliberate action they as one raised their right arms thrusting their palms forward into the air in defiant salute. Down the aisle strode Oswald Mosley, leader of the British Union of Fascists. He was alone. Dressed like his followers in a black shirt, black trousers with a razor-sharp crease, highly polished black belt and boots, he wore no medals or badges. His dark heavily greased hair was combed straight back with no parting and he had a small neatly trimmed moustache.

  Rigidly erect he strode unyielding down the aisle, resolutely ignoring his seated supporters – all they could clearly see was his distinctive profile as he passed in and out of sight between the serried heads of his honour-guard, eyes fixed firmly on the stage – his apparent disdain an appropriate adjunct to his undoubted sense of authority. Tony noticed he was receding slightly at the temples – an incongruous observation of imperfection in an otherwise flawless being that snared him as an interested observer and then reeled him in as a convert. A man of integrity, a brilliant leader of men and still only in his thirties, so Alf had told him, he certainly acted and looked the part. Tony was impressed with the powerful spectacle and the inveigling charisma of the leading man.

  Across the hall, people were rising to their feet, some even saluting. There were scattered cheers. Mosley began to climb the steps at the side of the stage and the reserve of many in the audience gave way. There was shouting, wild applause and a scattering of banners and flags were unfurled. Swept up in the mounting euphoria Tony and Alf stood and clapped enthusiastically. It was only as Mosley approached the podium and the full glare of the spotlights that he acknowledged the crowd. He lifted his arm in a part salute-part wave and looked out across the hall. When he reached the elevated platform in the centre of the stage he stood to attention for several minutes as the cheering reverberated around him. Then raising both hands he brought the gathering to silence.

  “Will you please sit down. My Lords, ladies and gentlemen. People of Lancashire…”

  A photographer’s flashbulb popped.

  “I have come to warn you of a grave danger, to alert you to the risks faced by this great country of ours. We all must be on our guard. Wake up, you men of England! We must keep Britain for the British!”

  There were a few scattered cheers. Mosley leant forward thrusting his face towards the audience, both hands resting on the sides of the lecturn.

  “The key”, he shouted, “is freedom of speech. There are thousands of you here tonight who have come to listen to the creed of Fascism. You have come to listen with an open mind and an open heart. But”, he paused, “you are not alone. There are those who do not want to hear what I have to say, they are afraid of the message I have for the British People. Their sterile ideas are no match for the integrity and intellectual honesty of Fascism. I speak of the Reds, of the communists in retreat across Europe, in the face of the fascist onslaught. Their tactics of disruption and violence will not work here. Their terror squads will not deprive the British people of the freedom to hear and discuss ideas critical to their survival. Britain is at a crossroads, we must not take the wrong turning at the prompting of a movement built on tired and failed ideas. It has succeeded but once, and only once and that in the most backward corner of Europe.”

  Mosley stepped away from the dais, as his eyes swept the hall. He raised his arm and pointed to the central aisle. His tone of voice was conversational, almost intimate.

  “You have all seen with your own eyes, the discipline and order of the Men of Fascism. I need, we all need, men of character, men of integrity who will stand up to protect the things that we value, the things that we hold dear, the things that generations of Britons have fought to achieve and defend. Top of that list is the freedom to speak one’s mind without fear of interruption or retribution. I demand that right and I expect it to be honoured in a civilised society. To that end we have a Fascist Defence Force to protect the British way of doing things. Let no one, neighbour or friend, tell you otherwise. Let no one in the Old Gang government tell you it is a private army out to serve my personal ends, they are only interested in saving their own political fortunes, do not believe either the orgy of lies told by the Yellow Press. For the politicians and the newspapers are in league with each other. They are united by only one thing, the real fight of the old world for its existence against the forward march of Fascism. They are not interested in the truth.”

  As he spoke a number of spotlights played across the stage casting vast gestic
ulating shadows against the Union Jack backdrop. Crouching, springing forward, arms flung apart, finger jabbing impulsively into the air, a pace to the left then to the right. A careful orchestration of movement, composed to punctuate his speech, underline key words, and emphasize his main points. The timbre of his voice, the pitch of the words, the pace of delivery came together to create a symphony of seductive, honeyed meaning. His message was almost secondary, but was in accord with what many in the hall wanted to hear. Tony, when asked afterwards, couldn’t recall much of what had been said. “He’ll create employment by banning foreign goods,” was the best he could do, “Safeguard Lancashire’s cotton industry, keep out the alien menace who control financing of jobs, protect the small businessman, and crush the large chain stores.” He supposed this had stuck in his mind, because when Mosley had just concluded his speech fulminating against the threat from foreign elements, and asked for any questions from the audience, the trouble had started.

  Entranced by the persuasive rhetoric of the orator on stage Tony was oblivious to all else happening around him. People were laughing as Mosley tore into what he called, “the pink pansies of Bloomsbury who were sobbing away the Empire.” The crowd was febrile, conflicting voices could be heard hijacking the narrative momentum of the speech and challenging its logical trajectory. Angry words were shouted out close by, there was a commotion to Tony’s right, one of his neighbours hissed, “Be quiet, sit down, wait your turn.” Tony paid no attention, straining to hear what was being said above the discordant growling background noises.

  Again a man shouted, this time Mosley stopped speaking and scanned the crowd, looking in Tony’s direction before carrying on seamlessly with his exhortations to action. The heckler was one of the men in the brown leather jackets seated in the same row as Tony. He was on his feet, gesticulating wildly. Tony was irritated, “Sit down, give him a chance to finish,” he called. The man and his two companions turned and looked at him grim-faced. One raised a finger and pointed at Tony. A black-shirted steward at the end of the row had stood up and was waving to others at the back of the hall.

  “Why do you blame the Jews for everything that is wrong with this country?” the leather-coated man shouted. “It’s the aristocracy, the ruling classes and the capitalists that are to blame.” There were cheers from people sitting nearby. “Blaming the Jews for everything is just an excuse. You’re just a Jew-hater.”

  “Sit down now or we’ll make you,” the steward called out as he began edging his way along the row of seats. People stood to let him pass. He had been joined in the aisle by several other black-shirted men, who crowded behind him.

  “See the true face of Fascist free speech,” called out the heckler, “Long live the unity of the workers against Fascist terror. One question that’s all I ask, just one question?”

  His two companions were now standing and yelling in support.

  “Fascist terror, Fascist terror, Fascist thugs!”

  On stage Mosley was carrying on, raising his voice, splenetic, his words forceful, ignoring the interruptions. The steward was a couple of seats away from the hecklers.

  “Sit down every bloody one of you or we’ll put you out.”

  Two of his colleagues were edging their way down from the other end of the row. They had almost reached where Tony and Alf were sitting. People were muttering, coats slid to the floor and were trampled underfoot. Somebody muttered, “Oi watch my hat.” The disruption spread. Heads were turning to see what was going on. A few members of the audience at the front of the hall were standing and looking back, trying to see if there was serious trouble. At the rear of the hall a policeman was peering round the heavy curtain draped across the main exit and watching intently. He had a whistle in his hand.

  “I’d like to see you try, you lousy bastard.”

  The heckler screamed as he jumped onto his seat.

  “Don’t you call me a bastard, you red swine.”

  The steward drew a truncheon from his inside pocket and lunged forward. A woman screamed and clutched her head as she ducked down into the arms of her husband sitting beside her. The man in the leather jacket lashed out with his fist, missed, lost his balance and toppled backwards over the arm of his seat. His companion who was facing the opposite way, watching the approach of the flanking stewards, lost his footing and fell to his knees. His forehead caught the back of a chair and blood began to flow into his eyes. All around people were standing up, shouting. Some tried to scramble over the seats to escape. A steward managed to grab the foot of a heckler as he sprawled across the row. But a boot in the face sent him reeling backwards, clutching his nose.

  Stewards converged from all sides. Tony and Alf were caught up in the melee. There was no escape.

  “Out the way, mate”, said a short stocky man as he tried to elbow his way past Alf, “Let me at ’em.”

  Tony could hear Mosley calling for order from the stage.

  “Let’s have no trouble, please behave yourselves.”

  Suddenly one of the hecklers leapt from his seat towards the encroaching stewards, screaming at the top of his voice. He landed on top of Tony, his elbow catching Alf on the side of his head. “Bugger me,” was all Alf said, before slumping back. Tony felt a rib cracking as the arm of the seat dug painfully into his side. His hands clawed at the man’s hair as he struggled to get to his feet. Pushing himself free, Tony leant back and punched the kneeling figure in the stomach, who groaning rolled over and slid into the gap between the rows of seats. Dazed the man tried to crawl forward to escape but was blocked by Alf’s buckled legs. Tony, who was now on his feet, grabbed him again by the hair and hauled him into a squatting position. A truncheon blow across the face raised a squeal of pain and blood spurted from the man’s broken nose. Alarmed, Tony let go as the steward rained blows onto the heckler’s head. Glancing round, Tony saw a mass of flailing limbs as Blackshirts battled with protestors, dragging them struggling one by one into the central aisle. But the demonstrators were not alone, at the back of the hall more of their number had ripped up seats and were using them as clubs to repel a group of stewards, who were trying to force them out of one of the side exit doors. Three other men had made a dash for the stage, two of them had been caught on the steps and were being beaten in the full glare of one of the spotlights. The other made it on to the platform, where he stopped and faced Mosley who was standing with his arms folded in the centre of the stage. He hesitated, then dashed to the base of the organ and pulled down the large Union Jack, trampling it with his boots.

  Tony heard a shrill whistling. The red curtain had been thrown back at the end of the hall and policemen were surging into the auditorium. As the house lights flickered on, Tony sensed the excitement ebbing away. Everything was calming down. The stewards next to him released his semi-conscious attacker, who they’d been trying to drag away and were retreating to the aisle. The injured man lay where he had fallen for a few seconds, wedged face down between two seats, groaning. He then began crawling slowly along the row, the few audience members remaining standing to let him pass. In the central aisle one of his companions was still struggling with three blackshirts. They were trying to force his arms behind his back and frog-march him from the building. A young policeman shouted at them to release him, his truncheon at the ready. They reluctantly obeyed.

  The police were everywhere. The violence subsided. Tony saw one blackshirted steward being arrested. On the stage Oswald Mosley stood impassively, saying nothing, his arms crossed. A plainclothes policeman in a long brown overcoat, belted tightly at his waist and wearing a Homburg hat joined him. He paused, looked contemptuously at Mosley, before reaching round him and dragging the microphone across the dais in a loud burst of static that had everyone turning towards the stage. He said nothing as he caught his breath, relishing the moment. The officer was relieved it had come to this. He had no time for the Fascists, especially those led by an arrogant member of the aris
tocracy and defector from the Labour party like this character, he had no time for Tories either, and liberals, or men in uniform. Violence should be reserved for the ring, drinking was a tool of the devil and he should never have to work on the Sabbath. Only a few arrests tonight, he thought, and I should get away before midnight. I’ll show them about freedom of speech, he smiled to himself and tapped the microphone.

  “Your attention please, I’m Chief Inspector Jenkins of the City of Manchester police. There will be no more trouble here or I’ll be obliged to close the meeting.”

  He cleared his throat and went on.

  “Return to your seats, if anybody has been injured my officers will deal with them. Now, all members of the Fascists Union who are in uniform will line up and leave the hall, they will not gather outside, they will not march away together but disperse immediately.”

  He then grabbed Mosley by the arm and pulled him away from the table towards the back of the stage. After a brief animated discussion, he returned to the microphone and announced that, “Mr Mosley has told me he wants no more trouble, so I repeat will all Blackshirts leave the building!”

  Pause.

  “Now, if you do not leave the meeting will end. I’m sure most of you would not want that to happen.”

  The vast hall fell silent. Mosley had turned away from the audience and was looking into the wings. Nobody stirred. Tony was exhilarated at the thought of the Blackshirts taking on the police. He felt they had the strength to do it. But would they? He knew he would side with them if they did. Alf, he was certain, would be feeling the same way and turned seeking confirmation. His uncle was crumpled in his seat. “Alf, what’s up?” he whispered and shook him gently. He was dribbling. For the first time Tony noticed the wound on the side of his head, where his hair was matted with blood that was oozing from a cut behind the ear. Tony felt sick.

  “Oh my God, Alf,” he shouted. “Somebody help me, my uncle’s hurt.”