by Hilary Green
Little by little I forced myself to face the facts of my new situation. Suddenly I had become completely dependent on the State for the means of life for myself and my children. The house, mercifully, was mine now, as the mortgage had been linked to a life insurance policy; but that was all. Most of our meagre savings had gone into buying Mike a partnership and the raging inflation of the last months had taken care of the rest. I tried to sell the car, but the market was already glutted with unwanted vehicles, and I resolved that I would not part with my few pieces of jewellery except in a case of dire necessity. Almost all had been presents from Mike and I loathed the idea of selling them.
There was nothing for it but the long queue at the Social Security office and the endless questions and forms.
I tried to get a job. There was nothing, of course. For the first time I was one of the faceless thousands queuing at the Job Centre and hopelessly tramping the streets. At night I lay awake, physically sick at the thought of the gas bill, the electricity bill, the rates; all those things which I had so happily left to Mike to deal with. I contemplated selling the house, but I knew it would fetch next to nothing in the present state of the market —and, anyway, where would we go? I tried to economize on heating but the weather was still chill and the children were so lost and miserable that I had not the heart to make them suffer cold as well. I fed them as well as I could and told myself that their pallor was only due to shock and the long, cold winter. It was when they begged for the simple luxuries like biscuits and sweets, which we had once taken for granted, that my pain spilled over into anger and I shouted at them. They did not react but withdrew into silence. Although we had wept together in the first days we were trapped each in our own prison of individual sorrow and I could not come to them.
I suppose it was the result of the election which finally penetrated the deep fog which shrouded me from the outside world, and put me in touch with reality again. No-one could have remained unaware of the atmosphere of suspense and tension, but in the event the result appeared inconclusive. Neither major party was able to command a majority and the National Unity Party members, who included Jocelyn Wentworth, held the balance of power.
After twenty-four hours of confusion a government emerged under the extreme right winger, Martin Emerson. Jocelyn was Home Secretary and other NUP members were prominent in the Cabinet.
That evening I listened to Emerson on the radio. To begin with his speech sounded like many others we had heard over the past few years: the necessity of tightening our belts, facing up to the challenge before us, the dark days ahead, the light at the end of the tunnel . . . then, “It will be necessary, in this extremity, to sacrifice temporarily— and I emphasize temporarily—some of the democratic rights which we have cherished over the years, even when they obviously militated against national growth and prosperity. Here I have in mind particularly the right to paralyse the country through strike action. . . .”
He ended by declaring that as from midnight troops would take over the running of the power stations and the railways. By dawn we were in the middle of a General Strike. Two days later the Government declared a State of Emergency.
In a strange way the next few days seemed, in our area, like a return to normal. The electricity was on all the time. The shops reopened. The Post Office issued ration books with a promptness which indicated that they must have been prepared under the last Government. With the ration book came an identity card. I know this caused a great deal of anger but, at the time, I could not see any great objection to carrying one. With ever-increasing food shortages and the flourishing black market the ration books were a comfort. It was some time before we all understood that they were a cynical illusion. Stocks were so low that the shops were unable to supply even the limited quantities of food allowed on the ration.
Elsewhere the State of Emergency was not accepted so smoothly. The major unions had refused to capitulate and for a day or two the television news bulletins showed pitched battles in the marshalling yards and at the pit heads and riots in the major cities. After that they became extremely vague about events in England and concentrated mainly on foreign news. The declaration of full scale censorship came soon after and several newspapers abruptly ceased publication. The only pages accessible on the internet were those supporting the government; email and what's app and all other social media were shut down.
Shortly after this Jane came in to see me on her way home from school. As we sat over a cup of tea in the kitchen she opened her briefcase and produced three or four sheets of photo copied type-script. These she laid in front of me. The top one was headed “TROOPS SHOOT DOWN STRIKERS.”
“What’s this?” I asked.
“You’ve heard of ‘samizdat’?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she jerked her head grimly at the duplicated sheets, “That’s what we’re reduced to in this country now. Since the censorship laws some journalists have got together to produce an underground newspaper so that people can get the facts about what’s really going on. Read it!”
I glanced down the closely typed pages. There were reports from many different areas. According to them the skirmishes between troops and strikers had become pitched battles and on several occasions the soldiers had opened fire, killing a number of people. Leading unionists had been arrested and were being held under the government’s emergency powers. Strikers had retaliated with petrol bombs and sabotage, and there were reports of much more sophisticated devices which had been planted in police stations and law courts by a group calling themselves Workers for Freedom, who were claiming support from revolutionary terrorist groups around the world, including the IRA. Another report told of troops being recalled from the Middle East to support the government, while yet another told how tanks had encircled a Liverpool dock-yard to stop dockers who wished to prevent troops unloading cargoes from ships there. The editorial claimed that, in spite of the use of troops, the country was slowly grinding to a halt.
I looked up at Jane. “I didn’t realize it was so bad.”
She shrugged. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? People living in relatively quiet areas like this think the rest of the country is the same; while people in the bad areas are encouraged to believe that they are just an isolated pocket of resistance.”
“What are you planning to do?” I asked her.
She shook her head slowly. “I can’t tell you any more at the moment. I just want you to think about it. And when you’re thinking, remember this. ...”
She turned over the pages of typescript and showed me another heading. MASSIVE GOVT. “CARE” CENTRES READY.
I read, “Reports are coming in from several areas that Local Authorities, on instructions from the government, are planning a massive expansion of places for children in care. Existing centres and homes have been warned that they may have to accept ‘considerably increased’ numbers and in some cases hospitals have been asked to submit plans for accommodating children taken into care. There are also rumours of disused army barracks being made ready to accept children. ...”
I stared at Jane. My mouth had gone dry. “Why?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I warned you, months ago. These people may pretend that this government is only a temporary measure to deal with an emergency, but they’ve no intention of stepping down when the time comes. Emerson, Wentworth —people like that —aren’t going to relinquish power now they’ve got it. They are aiming for a right-wing Totalitarian Government and one thing they need to do if they are going to perpetuate their rule is get hold of the children.”
‘‘But they can’t just take them!”
‘‘No, not just like that. But I pointed it out to you! The local authority only has to be convinced that it is ‘in the child’s best interest’. With so many people unemployed and homeless do you think they will have trouble finding excuses? And how long will it be before it’s decided that the children of dissidents are ‘at risk’? But there’s no need for you to worry a
t the moment. Be thankful you have a roof over your head!”
A roof, yes! But how long could I go on paying the bills? When Jane had gone I went into the lounge where the boys were playing games on their iphones with the total absorption which had become their defence against disturbing reality. I said nothing, but after a bit Tim came and snuggled against me. I held him close. Simon looked round and I gestured to him to come and sit on my other side, but he gave me a little tight smile and stayed where he was. I knew that it was not myself, in particular, that he was excluding but the world in general; but I would have sold my soul, at that moment, to penetrate his defences.
That night there was another broadcast by the Prime Minister. We were becoming used to the tousled head of Martin Emerson filling the screen, the blue eyes glaring at us out of the badly shaved face; but this time his words were more than vague threats and hopeful banalities. Because of continuing unrest and the terrorist activities of a ‘handful of left-wing fanatics’ it was necessary to impose further restrictions. There was to be a dusk to dawn curfew; gatherings of more than five people were prohibited; anyone wishing to travel more than twenty miles from home must have a permit. In order to help enforce these new regulations and to assist the troops and police in keeping order local units of Civil Militia would be set up, incorporating the TAVR and the existing groups of KBG vigilantes.
“The Government has also felt it necessary,” Emerson’s voice was thick and turgid, like cold semolina pudding, “to take draconian measures to deal with the rising tide of unemployment. The country can no longer afford to pay out vast sums in unemployment benefit to those who are well able to work. We have therefore decided to introduce some direction of labour. Many of our major industries are starved of manpower, either through strikes or for other reasons. From now on, universal credit will no longer be paid to the families of strikers and anyone applying for it will be directed into one of these industries, unless he or she can show positive and irrefutable reasons otherwise. If this entails the movement of workers from one area to another the government will provide cheap rail warrants and accommodation for the workers themselves. We cannot, however, make ourselves responsible for the removal of whole families. I am aware that this redisposition of the labour force may entail, in some cases, particularly in one-parent families, a certain degree of hardship. It is not, however, our intention that the children in these cases should suffer. We are, therefore, taking steps to increase the provision by local authorities of child-care places so that, where there is need, children can be provided with a secure and stable background in which to develop as responsible citizens of the new and greater Britain which we are all striving to build.”
There was a sharp knock at the front door as the broadcast ended. I jumped and felt instantly afraid. Jane would have let herself in through the back door and very few people came visiting in the evening these days. I tried to remember whether the curfew was to have started that night or not until the next.
On the doorstep stood the affable young man who had asked me about squatters and another, older man, smartly dressed, whom I recognized vaguely as a local house-agent. It was this man who spoke first.
“Mrs Fairing? May we come in?”
I experienced a moment of unreasoning panic which brought home to me the full force of the biblical phrase about bowels turning to water.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Just a few moments of your time. You don’t mind, do you? I think you know who we are.”
“I don’t know your names,” I gasped, clinging to the last barricades of the old order.
He smiled. “My name is Harrington, and this is James Piper, but the names are not really important, are they. What matters is that we represent the local committee of the KBG and we should like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
He stepped forward as he spoke, as if quite sure of his right of entry, and preceded me into the lounge. Piper closed the front door behind him and followed. Since they were in it seemed churlish to keep them standing so I asked them to sit down.
“What can I do for you?” The panic was abating now. These were, after all, just ordinary men. In other circumstances, one might have asked them to dinner.
Harrington rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and put his finger tips together. He had a long, narrow face made still longer by receding hair, with deep grooves running from each nostril to the corners of his lips.
“We were sorry to hear about your husband’s tragic death, Mrs Fairing.”
I acknowledged the remark without speaking and he went on, “I believe the verdict was ‘accidental’ death?”
I nodded.
He said, “Of course, we know that it was not accidental, except in the most trivial and peripheral circumstances.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your husband was killed, Mrs Fairing. He was killed by those striking railmen, just as surely as if one of them had hit him over the head with an iron bar.”
Once again as in so many sleeping and waking nightmares, the picture of the crowded platform with the angry, struggling mob flashed upon my imagination. I got up and turned away from them. Anger had taken the place of fear.
“It seems to me, Mr Harrington, that he was killed just as much by his fellow commuters. Especially by the people who started the fighting.” I looked back at him. “I heard that it was started by KBG supporters.”
I saw the narrow mouth tighten.
“You mustn’t believe rumours, Mrs Fairing. Besides, you surely sympathize with the anger and frustration of people prevented, through no fault of their own, from going about their lawful business and returning to their wives and families.”
“I don’t know about that,” I answered. “I only know they killed my husband.”
I was aware of a glance passing between the two men. Then Harrington said, “I am sorry to find that your attitude is somewhat — ambivalent. I had hoped that your husband’s death would have convinced you of the absolute necessity of supporting those forces which are striving to preserve order in our society.”
Suddenly I was afraid again. I sat down, trying to steady my voice.
“I’ve always supported law and order. I didn’t need convincing by Mike’s death —or anything else.”
“Forgive me, Mrs Fairing,” he said smoothly, “but according to our information you have not always exhibited a very sympathetic attitude towards the present government.”
I stared at him. “I have never done anything to express my feelings about the present government, one way or the other.”
“Perhaps not since the election,” he agreed. “But you are aware, of course, that the National Unity Party owes its strength in a very large measure to the KBG movement.”
He paused, looking at me as if requiring a response. I nodded, reluctantly.
“And am I not right in thinking that you encouraged your children to adopt an anti-KBG attitude at school? And that you protested to the Area Education Officer about a talk given at the school by one of our leading members, and attempted to persuade other parents to do the same? Can you still pretend that you have always shown a favourable attitude towards the people who are struggling to get the country back on its feet?”
“I just object to children being involved in politics, that’s all.” My voice had become hoarse and strained.
He leaned forward quickly. “This is not a matter of politics, Mrs Fairing. This is a matter of survival! If we are to survive as a nation, and as individuals, we must forget the party politics of the last decades. We must place ourselves squarely behind the people who see that what this country needs is a strong government and who have the courage to provide it. We need the support and positive effort of every man, woman and child, Mrs Fairing—and, in particular, of people like you. It may sound trite and old-fashioned but we are the back-bone of the nation, we of the middle class. We have a sense of responsibility; we have initiative; we have intelligence enough to see where
we are heading. The government is relying on people like us. You must do your part. You must throw your weight into the scale of order and sanity!”
He continued to stare at me, his face flushed, a subtle tremor around his lips and nostrils. I said in a low voice, “What do you expect me to do?”
“First of all, make it clear to everyone that you support us. The local committee holds meetings once a week, on Friday evenings in the village hall. Come to the meetings —and then I am sure we can find you plenty of useful jobs to do.”
“But what about the curfew?” I asked. “And the regulations forbidding meetings of more than five people?”
He had relaxed again and was smiling. “Those regulations don’t apply to us. We are now part of the new Civil Militia and as such we shall have a good deal of authority in seeing that the new laws are kept, but obviously we are exempt from them ourselves.”
“It’s a bit difficult,” I said slowly. “There are the children, you see. I can’t get out in the evening.”
“Oh come, Mrs Fairing! That’s not an insuperable problem. As a matter of fact I’ve already spoken to your neighbour, Mrs Randall. She and her husband are ardent supporters of ours, you know. She’s quite willing to come in and baby-sit for you. And as for the rest —well, after all, you have nothing to do all day, have you, while the children are at school? The country can’t afford to support idle people, you know.”
“I’ve tried to get a job,” I exclaimed. “I’d like to work, if I could find something.”
He rose and smiled down at me. “Well, I’m quite sure we can find plenty for you to do. We shall expect to see you at the next meeting, then? Eight o’clock in the village hall. Don’t forget.”
The two men moved out into the hall. I followed and as I was about to open the front door Harrington said, “Oh, and by the way, Mrs Fairing, I shouldn’t have too much to do with Jane Grant if I were you. We are aware that her attitude is extremely undesirable and I should not be surprised if she found herself in serious trouble before long. The new regulations forbidding public gatherings and demonstrations are going to be enforced very stringently, I can promise you that. It really is time for everyone to stand up and be counted. Those who are not for us are against us, you know. Good night.”
