The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  One of the stewards heard him and started to edge along the row towards them. Across the floor of the stalls, members of the Fascist Defence Force got to their feet and began lining up in the aisles. Then, as if in response to some unspoken order, they began marching out of the hall. There were a few cheers and sporadic clapping. Then the chanting started. A group of men and women seated in the circle, and who had not been involved in the violence, began shouting “Down with Mosley, Down with the Fascists.”

  “Don’t you worry about them,” hissed the steward as he bent down to inspect the unconscious Alf. “We’ll sort them out later. You get to know their faces after a while.”

  “This a friend of yours?”

  “Uncle.”

  “Better get him some help. It’s a nasty cut, the bastards. They’re always at it, razors, coshes, I’ve seen the lot.”

  He placed his arms under Alf’s, cradling his head against his chest.

  “You take his legs.”

  “Leave him alone! You, I said leave him alone. We’ll deal with it. Get out with the rest of your lot.”

  A policeman waved his truncheon in their direction. The steward hesitated and Tony could sense his fury.

  “Do it now or you’re in trouble.”

  “Here, my name’s Eric, Eric Baines. Thanks for your help. I saw what you did. We could do with more of your sort in the movement.”

  He thrust a piece of paper into Tony’s hands.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow at that address, come if you can, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  With that he eased himself back along the row, apologizing as he went. When he reached the aisle he turned and called out.

  “Hope your uncle isn’t too badly hurt.”

  As Eric sauntered defiantly out of the hall, Tony could hear the fragmented taunting words of the “Red Flag” drifting down from the balcony.

  Two policemen helped carry Alf into the foyer, where a doctor was bandaging one of the protestor’s heads. As they left Mosley was speaking again, trying to lift the audience, haranguing them with a tirade against the “Red Threat… loyalty to no flag but the hammer and sickle…Red rowdies… threatening the freedom of the men of Britain with bludgeons and razors … see what we have to put up with.”

  It was a difficult task even for a politician as experienced as Oswald Mosley. His rhetorical spell had been broken, the impression of invincibility tarnished.

  The jeering continued.

  “Down with Mosley. He’s a foreign stooge, smash the Fascist terror.”

  A smattering of people from all corners of the hall were joining in the singing of the Red Flag. The audience began to drift away, the police were everywhere, but they did nothing to halt the barracking and there was the threat of renewed violence.

  Alf regained consciousness lying on the floor of the crowded foyer, Tony shielding his body from the hurrying crowd. They cleaned up his cut and when he was steady enough to walk took him to the manager’s office and gave him a cup of tea. He said he couldn’t remember a thing when the Chief Inspector asked him if he knew who was responsible. Tony said, “It all happened so fast and I was looking at the stage when it happened.”

  It was after midnight when they were driven back to Droylsden in the Inspector’s car.

  “If you remember anything, you know how to get hold of me.”

  The policeman hesitated for a second observing the two men, leaning one against the other and shuffling towards the front entrance of the chip shop, before slamming the car door and heading home.

  “It had been worth putting a bit of pressure on those two. They didn’t look like hardcore activists and they might have told him something. Ah well! It would have to be another day that he got one of those bloody Blackshirts up in court.”

  Enid was not surprised that Alf didn’t get up early that morning, she assumed that he had been drinking and left him alone in the spare room to sleep it off. She tolerated that on a Saturday night, but gave her husband hell if it happened at any other time. She was taken aback, however, to find Tony up, the fire set in the kitchen and a pot of tea already on the go.

  “It’s not like you to be down this early, mind you”, glancing at the stove, “I’m not complaining. You can come again.” Laughing she said “I won’t tell your mother as she’d never believe me anyhow.”

  Tony smiled, his pale face bloated and eyes leaden. He was euphoric despite the damp, lowering dullness of the day, which normally would have darkened his mood. He’d lain awake for most of the night mulling over the evening’s savage events. It had been a wild adventure, one he’d found inspiring. A single event in his life came close to replicating the feelings he’d experienced at the Free Trade Hall and that was the recent fifth round FA cup-tie between Sunderland and Blackpool. And even that hadn’t matched the elation he now felt because Blackpool had lost in the final minutes of the game. Alf’s injuries only quickened his sense of gratification. His uncle wasn’t badly hurt and it had been his idea to go to the rally in the first place.

  “Uncle Alf was in a fight. Got knocked out.”

  “You what? Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  “He’s alright, he got hit over the head, but nothing too serious.”

  Enid was about to get up and go back upstairs.

  “Don’t worry. A doctor saw to him and said all he needed was to rest. We got a lift home.”

  “What happened? It’s not like Alf to go getting into trouble. He’s a soft old sod at heart. Only time he got in a fight, over football or something, he lost his front teeth. What did he do, swear at a City fan?”

  “No, no. We were at the Trade Hall for a political rally. There were speeches and some trouble started. Yobs started shouting. Communists I think. Wouldn’t let Oswald Mosley finish speaking. They started laying into people who were asking them to leave. We got swept up in it. Uncle Alf caught a punch. I didn’t notice till afterwards. We were just trying to keep out of the way.”

  Enid snorted and almost choked on her tea.

  “Huh, typical.”

  She leant forward and studied Tony for the first time.

  “You don’t look too good yourself. Did you get hit?”

  “No, I’m fine. Didn’t sleep too well that’s all.”

  “Is that right?”

  Shaking her head she reached up to a peg on the back of the scullery door and took down a pale-blue check work coat, which she buttoned up absent-mindedly as she moved slowly around the kitchen table to the sink.

  “Serves him right really, he’s mad keen on those Blackshirts. Thinks Mosley is some kind of Saviour. But he knows they’re a violent lot. Only last week he was reading out loud to me, from that paper of their’s, about the trouble that follows him everywhere he goes. He thought it showed the Party was on the right track. Getting up people’s noses as he called it.”

  Tony was surprised.

  “He’s a sly one Uncle Alf. I had no idea. Bet you he’s joined them hasn’t he?”

  “Been a member for a while now. Sells the paper every free moment he has. Tried to sell it in the shop till we had a bit of bother with some Labour lads who live in Sedgemoor Road. Keeps them hidden away now, until he can go out in force, case he runs into them again.”

  “Has he got the full uniform? A Blackshirt?”

  “No. He keeps going on about it though. I’m not keen. My old dad was solid Labour. He wouldn’t have been happy. I don’t know what to think. Keep your head down I reckon. You’ve got to stay well in with your neighbours in our line of business, don’t you? I mean there’s a good many other places to get your chips and fish round here. Enzoni’s are only too keen to take any new customers they can, what with them selling ice cream as well. But, Alf swears Mosley’s the man for the small businessman, like us. Has our interests at heart, he reckons.”

  “Spoke a lot of sense yes
terday. You know about the need to look after your own and that. I can see why people follow him. What’s Labour ever done for the man in the street? Look at me, never had a proper job. All I’ve ever done is serving the trippers for the odd week here and there.”

  “I know love, I know. Was Alf trying to talk you into joining? He says loads have followed his example round here. He thinks as he was one of the first in, he will get a promotion soon. He’s got high hopes at the moment, as we just heard that the Party’s head man here in Manchester was locked up down in London for thieving only the other week.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Didn’t Alf say? Not like him. What I heard was he was in one of those fancy shops near the party headquarters and was caught shoplifting. A watch I think. Caused a bit of a stir. It was said he gave Mosley’s name to the police. Didn’t make him popular. Be surprised if he turns up round here again in a hurry. Know his mother, she works in the Co-op on Heckie Street. He was always a tearaway, always in bother when he was young. Alf’s latched on to that right enough, keeps going on “there’s always the odd bad apple, doesn’t mean the whole crops rotten.” I dunno, really makes me wonder when someone like that gets to be so high up and important. Can’t have been more than twenty two, twenty three.”

  Shaking her head slowly she began filling a small pan with water.

  “Boiled egg?”

  “Er, yes please,” Tony called out, “Uncle Alf’s probably right, you can’t check everyone, and anyway he may not have done it. The police really have it in for the Blackshirts you know – saw that yesterday – they may have fitted him up. Wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Tony watched Enid slice the bread. It was getting light outside. He could clearly see a black cat crossing the roof of the shed at the end of the small cobbled yard where Alf stored his potatoes. A boy was yelling in the alley and Tony heard the sound of a bottle smashing, followed by a laugh. Sparrows were squabbling over a piece of bacon rind on the peeling black guttering outside.

  “No, he hasn’t,” he said almost to himself.

  “Sorry love, missed that. What did you say?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that Uncle Alf didn’t say anything to me about joining up. Didn’t say anything at all about that.”

  He looked round for his jacket. It was hanging over the back of one of the chairs. His right sleeve above the elbow was spattered with dark matted patches of dried blood.

  “Damn it, it must be Alf’s.”

  The flyer from the night before was still crumpled in his pocket.

  “What was that bloke’s name?” he thought to himself as he smoothed it flat and read aloud.

  “Britain First. The leader of the British Union of Fascists, Sir Oswald Mosley, speaks at the Manchester Free Trade Hall on “Fascism and the future of Great Britain”. March 12th 1933. Doors open 7 pm. Speeches at 8pm. All seats in the stalls are free to members of the public. Special reserved seats in the balcony for subscribers. Join the British Union of Fascists today. Apply for membership, in person or by post, at the BUF headquarters – Deansgate House, 274 Deansgate, Manchester. Read “The Blackshirt”, one penny, weekly.”

  Without hesitation he turned to Enid.

  “I might just do that Auntie, before I go back home. I might just sign up.”

  And he had. Deansgate House was easy to find. There had been three policemen in the street outside and two uniformed members of the BUF Defence Force checking people at the door. Tony had not been alone. He’d had to remain in the entrance hall for nearly half an hour before being allowed into the waiting room, which held about twenty people. He had to stand. He didn’t recognize anybody, not that he had expected to. There was only one woman and she seemed to be with her husband, who appeared to be in his forties. He was the only one wearing medals. Everybody else was much younger, early twenties, most of them. All were smartly dressed in suits and ties, a number had flowers in their buttonholes. The walls were covered in posters – larger versions of the flyer he had been given advertising the previous day’s rally at the Free Trade Hall, others giving details of Oswald Mosley’s meetings around the country. A banner – “Fascism, King, Empire” – was pinned above the doorway into the adjoining room. A series of pictures of a gesticulating Mosley making a speech in front of a large crowd were hanging along one of the walls under the slogan: “There is but one aim, one method and one leader.” A small table in the centre of the room was piled high with the latest edition of “The Blackshirt.” Almost all those waiting were reading a copy. Tony picked one up and leafed slowly through the pages.

  They were moving people through quickly and Tony soon had a seat. It was next to a large scuffed brown radiator. Initially he relished the warmth but rapidly began to overheat. Perspiring he was too embarrassed to take off his jacket or loosen his tie. Beads of sweat trickled the length of his back and made him shift uneasily. He fanned himself with his copy of the Blackshirt, but stopped when his neighbour looked at him strangely.

  “I’m not feeling too well. I’ll come back another day,” he muttered, smiling weakly. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and stood to leave.

  Revived by the chill air in the entrance hall, he raised the collar of his jacket and promised himself he would come back the next time he was in town.

  Outside, Eric Baines was getting out of a specially adapted black Austin Light Twelve-six, used by senior Party members to travel round the country to meetings, when he spotted Tony coming down the steps of Deansgate House.

  “You took my advice then, good. If you can hang on for a few minutes we can pop across the road for a drink if you’ve got the time.”

  He held out his hand.

  “How’s your Uncle? Got a sore head I bet. We’ve a good idea who attacked him. We’ll meet him again sometime soon, don’t you worry.”

  Tony shook his hand and tried to remember his name.

  “He’s not too bad, he’s sitting up in bed making the most of all the attention.”

  “Good, glad to hear it. He looked like a game old bird.”

  Eric nodded at the building behind them.

  “I hope you signed up for Division Two in there? As I told you yesterday we need all the good people we can get up here. They’re planning a big recruitment drive in the next few months, should keep you busy. Anyway can you hang on?”

  Tony flushed slightly.

  “I don’t think…I haven’t actually um … I’m in a hurry and there were lots of people ahead of me. So I’ll come back some other time. I’m over in Manchester about once a month or so.”

  Eric laughed.

  “It’s always like this after a rally. Everybody keen to join up. Look, come with me, I’ll fix it.”

  With that he strode up the steps, hurried past the guards and disappeared through a side door. Tony reluctantly followed and stood in the hallway feeling awkward. The door opened and Eric beckoned him over.

  “My old mate Les will see you now. What are friends for, eh?”

  The room was much smaller than Tony had been expecting. Les was sitting at a narrow table set against the far wall beneath a map of Britain showing party membership by county in scrawled red ink. At a glance London and Lancashire looked to be doing well. Two other men were in the room, one in uniform, the other in a black suit.

  “They’re the witnesses,” Les said, “This is Archie Payne, he’s the local treasurer, he’ll be chasing you for your subs.”

  “Pleased you decided to sign up,” said Archie, “any friend of Eric’s is welcome. He says you were at the meeting yesterday and had a spot of bother. Start as you mean to go on eh?”

  Everybody laughed, even Tony.

  “I got off lightly. It was my uncle Alf who felt the worst of it. Maybe you know him Alf Sawyer?”

  “Alf? Know him well. Runs a good little chippie. Not known him go looking for trouble in
the past though. Thought he was a bit long in the tooth for the rough stuff? Well, the old dark horse. This’ll do his standing no end of good. Wait till the lads hear about it.”

  Archie looked pleased. Tony thought there must be a bit of a history between the two of them. He would ask Alf.

  “So, you’ll know all about it then. No need to spell out the rules and regulations, yet again, thank Gawd.”

  Les passed over three forms.

  “Just sign on the dotted, swear allegiance and you’ll be across the road in no time. I wish I could join you but there’s still a few suckers to go, joking of course.”

  Tony felt happier with the way things were going.

  “Well this sucker’s not from round here, I live in Blackpool. Is that a problem?”

  “No way. In fact all the better,” said Eric “Not much of a party organization out there, only a couple of members so far, if I remember correctly. It was going to be one of our recruitment target areas. We were only discussing it at the last strategy meeting at the Blackies. You could play a key role if you’re really committed. It’ll be hard work mind you. Can take over your life, eats up time. What do you do by the way?”

  Tony was angry with himself afterwards, but at the time it seemed the only thing to say.

  “I run my own small business, household chemicals, this and that – keeps me busy.”

  “Whiter than white eh!”

  Les laughed loudly. Everyone else smiled, Tony as much out of relief as anything else. Being caught out in a lie early on would not have been a good start.

  “He’s a right card our Les. Keeps everyone going. Come on get a grip. We’re all getting thirsty.”

  Eric sounded irritated, but when Tony looked up after signing the forms he saw he was grinning.

  “Have you quite finished? Put your mark at the bottom of all three … the date March 13th. You know the year. Thanks. You probably know this already, but I’m supposed to spell it out for everyone. You’ve signed on as a Second Division member. What this means is you have to work for us at least one night a month, that’s all. But by what I’ve heard I’d say that wouldn’t be enough, keen lad like you. With an uncle already in and friends like Eric here, you’ll soon be bumped up into the First Division. That’s when the fun really starts, eh lads?”