by Martin Howe
A column of grey ash had dropped onto his trouser leg and he brushed it off.
“I spent some of the money they gave me on a couple of cigarettes from a small shop on the front and smoked them with relish on the train to Douglas. It was a stopping train and the carriage slowly filled up as we went along. I had grabbed a window seat and the one next to me was the last one to be filled. Everyone stared at me, but I didn’t care, they nudged each other and whispered. A young woman even giggled. She was plain enough, but to me she looked gorgeous, brown hair held back in a headscarf, blue floral dress, black shoes. I remember bright red lipstick, but I can’t believe that. It was in such short supply. Anyway, I got my own back by staring at her, which so embarrassed her she eventually left the carriage. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, as her seat was taken by a fat and disagreeable farm labourer, who smelled. A couple of stations from Douglas a young schoolgirl finally took the seat next to me. She had curly blond hair and looked at me through ice-blue unblinking eyes for the rest of the journey. I gave her a penny as we were leaving the station and her good upbringing got the better of her and she murmured thank-you, before running away. She was the first real person outside the camp to speak to me for oh so long, it did me the power of good, I can tell you. It meant I could shrug off the behaviour of the officious bastards who I had to report to at the harbour. I think they were from the Met police over on the Island to bump up security after the riot – you know that old buffer who ran the camp, Captain Faulkner, was kicked out after the trouble, brought in a Superintendent somebody and a few constables – one in the eye for the army that was, it was the only good thing that came from all that nonsense. I thought they were a bunch of complete tossers. Anyway they checked my papers, searched my bags and hustled me up the gangplank and that was it, goodbye to the Isle of Man. I’ve never been back. I was tempted, but could never quite bring myself to do it.”
The memories were painful and Tony frowned deeply, stroking his glass nervously. Touching his brow with his fingertips, he purposefully sat up, opened his eyes wide and stretched his face muscles.
“The sea crossing was very rough. People were being sick everywhere. I’ve never seen it so bad in my life. I felt terrible, but there were others far worse. Even members of the crew were throwing up as it was unbelievably stormy.
Tony shook his head.
“I think I passed out for a while, I was very weak. Woke up as we sailed into Fleetwood. Knott End-on-Sea, the lighthouse at the end of the pier, I was coming home. There was nothing to compare with that. I felt elated, in spite of the physical battering of the voyage. I still had miles to go, but it was my old stamping ground. South along the sea front – Cleveleys, Norbreck – I had my first pint at the Castle Hotel, I can taste it now – Bispham, my first sight of the Tower, North Shore. It was strange, dusk was falling yet there were no lights. It was completely different from how I had it fixed in my mind. There were couples out hand in hand taking the air, it was the first time I thought of Emily. What being back would be like, what I’d been missing. It was painful, like your first kisses, you know what I mean? Then maybe the young of today don’t know, it all comes too soon, too fast.”
“Oh God,” Peter sighed, “this is pathetic. Get on with it and cut the sermonizing crap.”
“The North Pier, the Tower, the swimming baths, South Shore, the Pleasure Beach, although it seemed to be closed, then Squire’s Gate and home.”
Clutching his head in his hands Tony paused. He felt tired. This was not something he wanted to be doing, dredging up disquieting recollections of the past. Angry, he snatched at the packet of cigarettes lying in front of him on the desk, instantly registered it was empty and tossed it in the direction of the wastepaper bin in the corner. The crushed cardboard box bounced off the chipped green rim and skittered across the floor to lodge under the rear wheel of Albert’s chair.
“Sorry.”
Tony’s head ached and he massaged his temples, with eyes closed, tasting salt in the corners of his mouth. In that moment he recalled his wedding ring, a flash of gold on a fattening finger. He hadn’t worn it for years, had taken it off one day to relieve the pressure, meaning to clean it and put it back on and never had. “Where was it now? So much had been lost. Some light-fingered boy had stolen it most likely.”
“It was how I pictured it, the house. Garden a little overgrown perhaps, paintwork peeling, a neglected look, but then many of the houses were, with the war and everything. The downstairs windows were boarded up, that should have tipped me off that all was not right, but I put it down to the air-raids. What did I know? I was a young man full of himself. It’s hard to believe now but I saw myself as some sort of returning hero, hardened by the flame of adversity, burnished by hardship. It was too dark for me to register the graffiti which had been scrawled on the front door and then roughly painted over, I just joyously hammered away.”
Tony smiled as he remembered Emily’s shocked expression – her face pale and shrunken, with bloodshot eyes and hair, already greying, pulled severely back from her forehead in a tight bun – the yell of recognition, the embrace. She felt light to him, thin and insubstantial, smelling of stale cooking. The cries of his two boys, their running feet, stopping suddenly in the hall, surprised, uncertain, shy.
“It’s your father,” Emily had said, “back from his war. Now maybe it’ll end boys. Give him a hug.”
The formal handshake with his eldest son, pulling away embarrassed from any further contact, the small arms briefly round his leg.
“My wife was overwrought to see me and my sons were distant. For the first time it really dawned on me that others had been affected by what had happened to me. What I had done. It was a fleeting thought though.”
Tony sighed to himself and sipped his brandy.
“I’d had my fill of violence, even death. Illness had been a part of life in the camps, but to see Emily changed was a shock. It was the lines on her face that got me most. She had aged and looked unwell. The terrible thing, and I feel guilty now thinking about it, admitting it, but she was no longer beautiful to me. It had gone, slipped away and I had had no time to come to terms with the loss as I should have done. Emily noticed I noticed, and in that moment the resentment was born. Try as hard as I could, I never recovered the ground, never made it up to her. Equality of suffering was nothing, the dimming of the light in my eyes as we first looked at each other marked the full stop in our relationship, the rest was just … a footnote.”
Peter shifted in his chair, he had barely moved, and he was getting cramp in his right leg. The soft rounded tones of the vicar’s voice, still tinged after all those years in the South with a faint trace of a Lancashire accent, were insinuatiing their way into his consciousness. Soothing the sharp edges of his anger, sapping his determination to hate him, dampening any thoughts of revenge. The pain in his calf was his saviour, waking him up and hauling him back, rekindling his hatred. Almost to himself he muttered the words, “I can see how you got away with being a bloody vicar for so long.” He then leant over and whispered in his Grandfather’s ear, “can’t you Grandad? He’s got a very smooth voice, addictive, nothing more than a drug.”
Tony didn’t appear to notice.
“Physically it came back, we were affectionate with each other, at least for a while. Her pent-up frustrations only filtered out slowly over the weeks. How bad things had been for her, for them. I had been right to worry in the camp. She had sent me a cutting from the local paper hinting at how people disliked the fascists, well that was nothing to the reality of it. There was physical and verbal abuse, the windows in the house were regularly broken, the door and footpath were daubed with the word “Traitor” mostly, it was a respectable neighbourhood after all.”
He snorted dismissively.
“It still angers me today. These were friends, neighbours, people I had grown up with, ostracizing Emily and the boys.
God they had a terrible time at school, with the other children. The whole town seemed to know about my internment, people pushing in front of them in queues, barely speaking. Shopkeepers would claim they had run out of food when Emily finally got to the counter after queuing for hours. Even my bloody family, who were in the grocery business, can you believe it, refused to lend her a hand. I haven’t spoken to most of that side of the family since. The Council was useless, they made no special arrangements to help and Emily eventually had to apply to the Local Assistance Board. She was a proud woman, she felt so humiliated and then they turned her down on the grounds that she had relatives in town and we owned the house, which wasn’t strictly true. They told her that her husband was disloyal and should be shot and that she had to get out to work or starve. Bastards, I couldn’t believe it when I heard. I almost went round there. Emily and I had our first serious row over that. She told me that violence was my response to everything, brawn before brains, and she was sick of it. It achieved nothing. So I didn’t go. I felt so angry I didn’t speak to her for days. Seems stupid now. They were different times and we were different people. It was all very well saying find work, but nobody would employ her if they knew about me, and they all did. The local ammunition factories, employing women by the score turned her away saying they couldn’t take on a security risk. A bakery in Poulton gave her a job, but then the other workers found out somehow and she was blacked, if you pardon the pun.”
A fleeting smile crossed Peter’s face.
“There was no way she could grow anything in the garden like everyone else, as it kept being dug up and vandalized. Her family helped out a bit, but her parents were getting on and lived a fair way away. Emily had always had a weak chest and she was seriously ill over the winter, almost died I was told. She got better but was never quite the same, any heavy work had her gasping for breath, poor woman, it eventually killed her you know. December 15th 1961, coughed her life away. I was with her. I felt so guilty. I know my sons blamed me. They’ve been distant ever since, dutiful, but remote. I hardly ever see them. Things have been better with one of my grandsons though, David, he stays with me a lot, but I’m not sure he knows anything about my background, in fact I know he doesn’t.”
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket Tony noisily blew his nose. His voice was hoarse when he began speaking again and he wiped away a tear, hiding behind the pretence that he had something in his eye.
“What a house of cards, eh?”
He dabbed at his nose and mouth, then looked across at Peter, expecting a sign of reciprocity, some evidence of comprehension. Nothing. Wincing slightly, Tony remembered where he was and what was happening. He was confessing his crimes without any hope of absolution. “Redemption, what’s that?” he thought and smiled wanly.
“You know the irony of it all? What kept Emily and the children going? It was the bloody fascists. The party paid most of the bills and kept the wolves from the door. An old friend of Emily’s from her days at the British Union headquarters in London set up a charity, an official one, the 18B Detainees Aid Fund. As soon as they found out about her predicament they helped as much as they could, but there were a lot worse off than Emily, homeless and that. She survived, all credit to her, but at the time I couldn’t see the price she had paid and what she wanted from me.
All I did was rage, take people on in the streets, argue back, get into fights. I was lucky I didn’t have any trouble with the police, as I had to report to them regularly. Emily couldn’t stand my nonsense, she just wanted support and most of all calm. But I didn’t see it. I genuinely believe now, although it sounds very naive, that I didn’t understand why everyone was so antagonistic. After all these were people I’d grown up with, many had come along to my meetings before the war, heard me speak, given me encouragement, expressions of support, bought copies of “Action” from me, some had even been members of the Party. And now they were abusing me and my family, it was too much. The upshot was that there was no way I could find work, or to put it the other way, there was no way anybody would give me work. I was just another mouth to feed at home, adding to the pressure on Emily. None of it was helped by the restrictions placed on me when I was released. I had a bloody red stamp on my identity papers, singling me out as a detainee. Never found guilty of anything and there I was marked for life, or so it seemed at the time. As I said I had to report to the police every month, wasn’t supposed to meet any of my old mates in the Party, although I didn’t take much notice of that, they were the only ones who would talk to me and the final thing was, I wasn’t supposed to travel more than seven miles from home – made finding bloody work even harder, I can tell you.”
“My heart bleeds for you.”
Peter was standing and stretching his arms.
“Any chance of something hot? I see you’ve got a kettle down there on the floor. I’m sure Grandad would like a cuppa.”
Wrenched from the brutal dream world of his past into the challenging present, Tony was several seconds in replying. It then took him an age to make three cups of coffee. He moved slowly, his stooped body shuffling round the crowded room, squeezing with difficulty past the desk, the chairs, the piles of papers. For the first time in his life he felt his age.
“So what did you do then? I can’t wait.”
Peter was sitting closer to the desk than before, he was cradling the hot steaming mug in hands protected by the rolled down sleeves of his grey sweater. His voice had a cruel edge to it and Tony realized he was enjoying himself, feeding on his own growing misery, feeling stronger and more powerful by the minute.
“I didn’t have a lot of choice with a war on. Many British Union members joined the army or whatever as soon as they were let out. They had been stung by the traitor tag and wanted to prove themselves, I suppose. It was all completely untrue – none of us were traitors…”
“Oh come on.”
“…no, look we were British patriots. We just believed in a different way of running things. Fighting Germany was not in our interests. We should never have gone to war in the first place, we should have done a deal with Hitler. Negotiated on the basis of mutual spheres of interest. That was what it was all about – we had the Empire, he could have Europe. Look at us now the victors, we’ve lost the Empire, our position in the world and are part of some United States of Europe. Who was right?”
“That’s all bollocks.”
“It most definitely is not. Two world wars Britain has won this century – ostensibly to save Europe and where are we? Going cap in hand to country’s we either defeated or bailed out, things could have been so different.”
“…and you’re full of shit.”
“Like your Grandfather then. At one time he must have believed in all this, probably still does. Have you asked him?”
“Leave him out of this, you’ve no bloody right to side with him. He’s paid a fucking awful price for any mistakes he’s made. How dare you? Feeling better are we? Airing the old familiar arguments again, reassuring yourself that what you did has some intellectual justification. Well let’s get something straight. To everyone else, that is who has a streak of decency in them, you’re a fascist, a blackshirt and one who helped cripple another man and laughed it off. Then hid his dark past behind a facade of decency that has successfully taken in generations of people. They’ll not be too pleased when they find out the truth believe me. Now tell us how you did it, that’s what we came for.”
“We were not traitors,” Tony said meekly, “I would never have done anything to undermine Britain. I supported the King.”
His voice trailed off and he wiped his eyes again with his handkerchief.
“I joined the Auxiliary Fire Service. They were desperate for volunteers, what with all the raids on Liverpool. Spent much of the rest of the war down there in the docks, that absence and the money coming in helped out at home. I hardly saw the kids for weeks on end, and then you only got a co
uple of rest days and you went back. But I think that made me more acceptable, more like everybody else who had men away in the forces or whatever. People were still having a go at them, particularly the boys at school – you know what children are like – but it was getting more routine. Emily seemed to be coping better and we were very friendly whenever I was around. From my point of view much of the work was at night so you didn’t meet a lot of civilians, no need for explanations. Also, it was so hard going that you slept for most of the time you weren’t on duty. Fire- fighting was seen as honourable war work so the police took a more lenient view of me.”
“It all finished at the end of the war though. It was a shame, I had got used to the routine, and being unemployed again raised a new set of problems. Back in Blackpool the neighbours seemed more antagonistic towards me, rather than less. I suppose with the threat and anxiety of the war gone, they were looking for someone to blame for all the hardship. I was sent to Coventry by our whole street, my local barred me – “no traitors allowed in here”, the pompous ass – the ban quickly spread so that I had to walk up to the busy pubs on the prom that were full of holidaymakers, to get a drink. Initially I was angry and defiant. I considered I’d paid my dues, but no one else did. I became depressed and increasingly taciturn. I started taking long solitary walks, occasionally staying out overnight, sleeping in haystacks, barns that sort of thing. But was I believed? No. Not the recipe for a happy marriage I knew, but I didn’t have the emotional maturity to cope. We were drifting along. Largely out of a lack of anything better to do, rather than any burning commitment, I got back in touch with old members of the British Union. There was quite a network I discovered. It helped for a while. Most were in the same boat and it was some sort of comfort, but the fire had gone out of most of them and people slowly slipped away as they got themselves sorted out. There were a few, mind, who believed in it still, their views hardened by the reality of defeat. They were full of all that “out of the ashes” crap. But I hung around and even went down to London for a reunion dinner. It was Christmas 1946 – pretty austere times as you can imagine, but infinitely more exotic than Blackpool. I hadn’t been to London for years and it was a real escape for me. I was a bit out of my depth as the get-together was at the Royal Hotel in Woburn Place, very up-market. That was the last time I saw Eric, he’d invited me. Dragging me along as usual. He was drunk for the whole time I was with him, talking non-stop about starting afresh. He seemed to have run into money. With all that had happened, I wish I could honestly say I saw through him. But I didn’t, he just seemed to have left me behind. I’ve no idea what happened to him, but knowing him he’ll have done alright for himself.”
