by Martin Howe
His face flushed a furious red and he clenched his fists.
“I want to get this over with. Hang on, it’s not that warm in here. What’s wrong with the vicarage? Are you hiding someone away in there?”
“No, there isn’t one, it was demolished,” Anthony added as an afterthought, “it was in a bad condition.”
Peter looked at him in disbelief.
“I have a flat. A small one, a mile or so away. It suits me. We can go there if you want, but there are rather a lot of stairs.”
Peter shrugged and nodded towards the vestry.
Anthony’s desk was as cluttered as always. His pencil notes for that day’s sermon lay where he’d left them, scattered across the shiny green surface. Copies of the latest edition of the parish magazine were piled on one corner of the table and on the floor in neat bound bundles of one hundred. An overflowing ashtray spilled cigarette ends on to a yellowing copy of the Daily Telegraph and a half-filled mug of scummy coffee stood in the middle of an array of brown-tinged circular stains. Natural light, filtered through white-tinted glass, flooded the small room creating the illusion, at certain times of the day, of being underwater. Anthony found the effect strangely unsettling and always switched on the battered black spring-loaded table lamp whenever he was working in the room. Sitting beneath its harsh artificial yellow light he cut himself off from his dusty, shabby surroundings and could write and read for hours. Today the magic was gone and, suddenly frightened, he switched the lamp off.
“Come in. Drink anyone? Afraid it’s only a rather inferior brandy.”
Peter drew the heavy threadbare curtain across the doorway, cutting them off from the nave and sniffed noisily as he looked disparagingly round the room. “This the offending mag?” he asked as he tipped a bundle of parish magazines off the only other chair. Anthony looked up as they thudded to the floor, broke loose from their string binding and scattered under the desk.
“No, next weeks.”
“What you on about this week, Jesus was a Fascist? Mosley was a prophet?”
“No, immigration if you must know.”
“You’ve probably been doing this for years, haven’t you? Nobody really paid any attention. Just seen as a local character, I suppose, a bit of an eccentric. Met them all down the local pub: “Good fellow that Coxon-Dyet, sometimes a bit rich for my tastes, but generally sound, eh what?” God I hate you.”
Peter placed a hand on his Grandfather’s shoulder, switched on his hearing aid, and then sat down. Anthony reached over and with effort pulled open the middle drawer of a battered military green metal filing cabinet standing to one side of the window. He lifted out a three-quarters empty brandy bottle and two stained tumblers.
“Your Grandfather, will he have any?”
“I don’t think he’d like to drink with you. Me? I’m not so particular. Give me a large one.”
Sipping at his glass and letting the raw burning taste of the brandy trickle slowly down his throat Anthony came to the decision to deny everything. Thinking clearly for the first time he realized that they could prove nothing, it would be his word against Albert Chalmer’s and it was far from clear whether Albert could say a sensible word.
“Look, I think there’s been some sort of mistake.”
Peter stared at him aghast.
“You’re bloody unbelievable, you really are. There’s been no mistake.”
He spoke with such vehemence that Anthony’s new found resolve immediately began to crumble – the knot in his stomach tightened and he felt palpitations in his hands and forearms. Clutching the desk firmly with his left hand he shifted forward in his chair, swallowed hard, then looked directly at Peter.
“What do you mean, no mistake? I should know what I got up to…”
“Aaaaagh, this is pathetic. You really are beyond fucking belief.”
Albert moved agitatedly in his wheelchair, a series of jerking motions of the upper body that brought his grandson to his feet, he began to moan. Gently restraining his Grandfather, Peter turned to Anthony.
“See what you’re doing, he deserves better than this from you. You bloody owe him.”
He then reached into the inside pocket of his heavy blue overcoat and took out a buff envelope. Sitting down he opened it and watching the priest intently, slowly withdrew several neatly folded sheets of paper. Deliberately smoothing out each one in turn and glancing at the text he selected one from the bottom of the pile and handed it to Anthony. It was closely typed in single spacing and for several seconds Anthony saw nothing but a black blur of letters moving jarringly before his eyes.
“It’s Grandad’s statement to the military police in Liverpool, when he’d recovered enough from his assault to talk. That was several months after he was beaten up I believe, but it points the finger firmly at you Tony Cox and your friends, Eric Baines and Paolo X. He didn’t know the Italian’s surname, but you and Mr. Baines were well known. Oh, by the way, it’s only a copy.”
Anthony could see clearly now.
“This is the sworn statement of Albert Bertram Chalmers – internee no. 247586, formerly of Peveril Camp, Peel, Isle of Man. Currently residing Walton Prison infirmary. Dated the 23rd September 1941. Those present Inspector Ernest Rothman and Constable Dick Mason.”
Anthony read on, the events of that fateful evening running through his mind with an unerring clarity.
“…Eric Baines returned with his friend Tony Cox. They were often together and were billeted in the same house in the camp. (Witness believed it was number 13, Ballarat Road). I clearly saw his face in the candlelight and I recognized his voice. They talked briefly and then came over towards me…”
He dropped the paper on to his lap and looked away, his eyes filling with tears.
“There’s much more, Grandad was very detailed.”
Anthony raised his hand.
“Had enough?”
“Where did you get it from?”
“None of your bloody business. Let’s just say Grandma was very determined and very persuasive. Also Grandad could talk more after it happened, he told the family his story many times. I don’t know what you expected.”
Anthony shook his head, but said nothing.
“What pisses me off is how you got away with it. I bet you were never even questioned about the assault?”
Shaking his head weakly, Anthony drained his glass and covered his mouth as he coughed. His eyes were stinging.
“What was it, bloody fascist sympathizers in the police force? Or weren’t they bothered about fascists beating up each other? Good luck to them, I suppose?”
“It was wartime.”
“Oh God, that old chestnut, for fuck’s sake. You know what gets me about all this is that I hate the whole fucking lot of you. Here I am chasing round the country tracking down one filthy fascist for kicking another one half to death. I shouldn’t care should I? It was a long time ago, you’re all fucking spent anyway and today we’ve got blackshirts of our own out on the streets. I should be going after them.”
He wiped a fleck of saliva from the corner of his mouth.
“But you know what kept me on your tail? It wasn’t just a family thing, it was the unbearable thought that you were out there, thinking you’d got away with it, living a life. Your own family oblivious to your rotten past. There was no way I could let you get away with it. Grandad here’s paid for his mistakes. He’s paid far too high a price, mind you. Now it’s your turn.”
Anthony thought the young man was about to lunge at him across the desk and momentarily clenched his fists, but Peter relaxed into his chair. There was silence. Anthony held back, he felt he wanted to talk about it, to confess, he had never put it all together even for Emily, but there was still a key element missing. The final nail that would seal him firmly into his coffin had not yet been driven home, something was bubbling through the queasine
ss, the hot and cold flushes, an instinct that had served him well all his life, told him it may not even be coming. Hold on. The church door thudded shut and the metal latch clicked comfortably into place.
“Oh God, Miss Vestey. How much had she heard? Everything, knowing her, oh hell.”
Rustling papers, the creak of the old chair, Peter was leaning towards him.
“Here, you should read this.”
The piece of paper he was holding was folded and it was unclear what it was. Then the hammer blow came, as it was opened out to reveal a page from the British Union party newspaper, “Action”. He’d not seen a copy in years, but it was instantly recognizable, and this one was particularly familiar. There he was in black and white, younger of course, but unmistakably him. He glanced at the masthead, January 23rd, 1937, they had kept a copy of this at home. The headline read, “More British Union candidates, Eight more prospective parliamentary candidates – Further announcements will appear in “Action.” There he was seventh in the list.
“Liverpool (Walton), T. Cox. Mr. Cox was born in Blackpool, where his family has long associations. After leaving school he assisted in his uncle’s wholesale grocery company, gaining great knowledge of the commercial side of the business. Mr Cox had no political interests before joining the British Union in March 1933. Since then he has become well known as a capable and energetic propagandist. He has thoroughly mastered the policy and spirit of British Fascism, and speaks in a thoughtful and convincing manner on the platform. He is now 26 years of age.”
Tony Cox stared unsmilingly out at the Reverend Anthony Coxon-Dyet. Nothing had changed, he was the same person, there was nowhere to hide. He smiled, the write-up had all seemed overblown at the time, if he was honest. He and Emily had had a good laugh about it, but ambition and vanity had banished any concern for the truth. Now it seemed appropriate that he was finally being nailed down by that earlier lie. A lingering glance at a figure that seemed more real to him than anything that had come afterwards, sandwiched between other familiar figures. He could hear their voices, smell the hair oil, the sweat, see the black shirts, the glinting brass buttons and shiny black boots. He handed the sheet of newspaper back to Peter with a sigh.
“My Grandma kept them all. I’ve even got your wife here somewhere.”
He began sorting through the papers on his lap.
“No, that would be too much, please.”
“All I want is my Grandfather to hear your side before he dies.”
Through his sudden tears, Tony saw the faces of smiling young men and women marching past him, waving, calling out, beckoning him to follow. The songs, he had never paid much attention to them at the time, but the words were as fresh as ever and he knew he could recite every verse and hum all the tunes. Then there was Eric standing before him with the old enticing grin and arms outstretched. Softly he began to speak.
“There was a riot and privileges were suspended; there were no visits, everyone was confined to the camp and all organized games, lessons, meetings were cancelled. Security was stepped up, but only along the wire, none of the houses where we lived were searched. Work parties were sent out to clear up the debris and repair the damage to the seafront terrace. None of this impinged on us in house number 13 though. We were doubtful that anything would come of the meeting we had with that politician – he had a funny name, which completely escapes me now – and we were scared that they would break their promise and get back at those they saw as responsible for the riot. So we were spurred on to greater efforts with our precious tunnel. We were trying to dig ourselves out, you see. Escape. I believed at the time that it was the only way I was going to get away from there. You’ll be pleased to hear I paid the price for all the rushing, the cutting of corners. The tunnel caved in on me when I was digging and I almost died, smothered by tons of earth, it was horrible. It terrifies me even now, although at the time I was much braver … funny.”
Tony closed his eyes for a moment – the oppressive compression as vivid as ever, the air hot, particulate, the slipping away – before continuing in a whisper.
“Anyway, Eric pulled me out just in time. I had stopped breathing. I was completely buried, only my feet were visible in the rubble. He saved me. That was the sort of person he was. Albert, you’ve got to understand, I owed everything to Eric, my career, meeting my wife, the innumerable times he saved me in fights, the nights of drinking, the endless debates about everything under the sun. He was my dearest friend and he asked for my help, I couldn’t refuse. He was begging me, what could I do? I had never seen him so distraught. He was a very angry man, but I stopped him going too far. He would have killed you, I could see it in his eyes. We moved you out of the basement and left you somewhere where you’d be found quickly. I kept my ears open, I knew you were picked up and taken to the infirmary at Ballaquane. You were still alive. Then I was told that you were shipped out to hospital on the mainland. That was the last I heard of you. I assumed everything was fine. That was why I didn’t say anything. There were always fights between inmates and nobody thought anything of it. You certainly never spoke to the authorities about who was responsible. That was the unwritten rule. God, you’ve got to believe me I had no idea that we’d beaten you so badly, I swear. There was no way I could have known and even if I had learnt of it somehow, there was no way I could have said anything after Eric later saved my life in the tunnel. I was not going to rat on him after that, you have to understand. Life went on. We had the tunnel and we’d had our riot, we just had to escape, that was my only priority.”
He searched their faces for a sign of acknowledgement, some indication that they understood. But there was nothing. Albert sat impassively in his wheelchair, totally still for the first time, while Peter stared morosely at the floor. After several seconds of silence he looked up.
“My ribs were badly crushed by the falling earth. We bound them up and tried to go on as usual, but I could hardly move. I couldn’t make it down to roll call. So we cooked up a cock-and-bull story about me and Eric colliding on the stairs in the dark and both of us falling down and him landing on top of me and they bought it. I ended up in Ballaquane, like you, Albert. The others went on with the tunnel, cleared up the mess and made it through to the other side of the wire, coming up exactly where we had planned. They even built a trapdoor, covered with turf and everything to disguise the exit. But the tunneI was discovered completely by chance, the neighbour’s dog sniffing around, I believe, before anyone managed to escape. It was a catastrophe for the poor bastards left behind, after all that hard work. They were shipped off to prisons in Manchester and Liverpool and the tunnel was filled in. It didn’t affect me, as I never returned to House 13 and barely made it back to the camp.
They must have been considering me for release, though I had no idea about that at the time, and my “accident” took me to the top of the list. As soon as I could walk on my own, they sent me to the camp and released me. I can still recall that moment when the army major came up to me and said I was to report to the guardroom at 0700 sharp next morning to collect my belongings. They gave me my papers with internee stamped across them and a travel voucher to Blackpool. I’ve still got them, they’re the only things I held on to after I began my new life, the rest had to go. Emily was afraid someone would find something and expose me. She was always the more practical one. Even had to keep it from the children, told them some tale about me having been away fighting in the Army. They believed me and after a while I began to convince myself. But it was always lies, a great tissue of lies. It’s even harder to disentangle fact from fiction now. Ah well, more brandy?”
Peter nodded and held out his glass. Tony half-filled it then drained the rest of the bottle into his tumbler. He fumbled around in the desk drawer and pulled out a crushed packet of ten Wills Whiffs and a box of matches.
“I’ve been trying to give them up, though without much success I’m afraid,” he nodded at the full as
htray, “Do you mind if I do?”
“No, kill yourself.”
His hand was shaking as he brought the burning match up to his face. The glaring flame hurt his eyes and it was with relief that he extinguished the match and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. Light-headed, feeling disengaged, he sat there mournfully allowing the smoke to seep out of his mouth, only to suck it greedily back up his nose moments later.
“Sorry, would you like one?”
“No.”
“Now, where was I? The camp gate always opened promptly at 0715 in the morning. There I was, one second a prisoner, the next a free man. I stepped out on to the promenade opposite that hotel – the Creg Malin – I was euphoric, never been so happy before or since. I felt I had everything to look forward to. In less than a day I would be back with my family. l could hardly wait. I tell you, I walked along the front in a state of utter joy. It was an overcast day and the sea was rough. I remember, because the tide was in and waves were breaking over the sea wall. For me, the sun was shining and everything was perfect. I raced along trying to catch the spray on my face – the delicious chill – I can feel it to this day.”
He closed his eyes again and the salt water whipped his glowing cheeks and the wind ruffled his long greasy hair. He cried and screamed and shouted at the top of his voice. He spun round and round, his shoulder bag flying faster and faster. He stumbled, unsteady on his feet, dizzy, and sat down on the stonewall, laughing like he’d never laughed before.
“Thinking back, I got a few funny looks, but no one did anything to stop me. Everybody must have known where I came from and who I was, but the camp’s reputation had spread far and wide – they are hard men, leave well alone. I relished that at the time, but now I see it as pathetic. You probably won’t believe me, all a bit too convenient you’ll be thinking, but sod it, this confession isn’t just for you anymore.”
