by Hilary Green
“It wasn’t my choice,” he muttered.
“But whose choice was it?” I asked. “Who put those men in charge? That Irishman . . . he’s not a student, or a worker.”
Jim gave me a brief, tight-lipped smile. “No, you’re right of course. He's a member of what they call the 'Real IRA'. Seems he was trying to organise some kind of sleeper cell here. When all this started, there he was, right on hand with all the necessary expertise and organization. He’s taken charge of the whole operation.”
I looked sideways at him. “How do you feel —about working with the IRA?”
He pushed the car into a lower gear with sudden ferocity. “They are not the only ones. IRA, Anarchists, Marxist revolutionaries, Islamic Jihadists, you name it, they’re here. They are the only people who know how to cope with a situation like this —and the only people who can get us arms; and that’s what we need if we’re going to get rid of this government.”
“But surely they’re only here to make the trouble worse,” I said. “Does it have to be done their way?”
“Look,” he said. “As I see it there are three possibilities. One—this government stays in power and we are reduced to the condition of Spain under Franco, or worse; because you needn’t think that at the end of five years they are going to meekly let themselves be voted out again. Two—we wait for someone to ‘invite’ the Warsaw pact countries to come and ‘liberate’ us. Or three—we kick this government out ourselves; and to do that we need all the help we can get. Organizations like the IRA have international links. The Irishman says he can get us arms from Germany, or even from Japan. When we’ve got democracy back, then we’ll see about dealing with the terrorists.”
He fell silent and I said no more. We came to another check-point. Jim got out and conferred briefly with the men there. Then he came back to the car.
“They say the army are only about two miles ahead. I’ll do my best to get you through but no-one knows where the road blocks are.”
We drove on another mile or so. Then, as we approached a group of farm buildings the figure of a boy suddenly leapt out of the hedge and waved us urgently into an open gateway. Jim wrenched the wheel over and we rocked and bumped into the farm yard. We had just rounded the side of a barn, so that we were hidden from the roadway, when we heard the low roar of heavy engines approaching along the road. Through the branches of a hedge I saw a column of tanks and armoured troop carriers grinding its way slowly past.
After a few words with the boy Jim drove on again. Shortly afterwards he pulled off the road by a pub and two men immediately came out. Once again Jim got out of the car and conferred with them. This time when he came back he did not get in but leaned down and spoke through the window.
“They say the road up ahead is clear, as far as they know. The army is obviously moving in towards the centre and it looks as if we’ve slipped through the ring. I’ll have to leave you now and get back to the others. Will you be all right?”
I looked up at him. I had not realized until now what a comfort the presence of a man, even a stranger, had been. I swallowed.
“I expect so. We’ll manage.”
He put his hand in through the window.
“Good luck. Take care.”
“And you,” I answered, taking his hand. “Don’t —don’t get into danger unless you have to, will you. And thanks —for everything.”
He stood back and I shifted into the driving seat and started the engine. As the car slid out onto the road he waved and then turned away.
It occurred to me that I had no idea where we were, except that we had been heading roughly north-west. At the next junction there was a sign post. WANTAGE 4, it said. There had been no sound from the back of the car for some time. I stopped and looked round. Two solemn, pale faces stared back at me. I smiled at them.
“Cheer up! We’re on our way now.”
They looked at me, unimpressed. Then Tim said plaintively, “Could we have some lunch now?”
I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes to one. Half the day gone, and we had covered only just over fifty of the two hundred and more miles to Dolgelly. Ahead an open gate let into a field. I pulled the car off the road and got out, my legs cramped and shaky from tension. The boys scrambled out after me. The wide, gently rolling Oxfordshire countryside was still and empty. The trees and hedges were still bare but there was a faint misting of green on the ploughland of the field and above us a skylark sang with rapturous urgency. Huge mounds of cumulus drifted overhead but we were in sunlight for the moment and there was very little wind. I smiled at the children.
“We’ll have a picnic. Our first picnic of the year.”
Within half an hour we were back on the road. Perhaps it was the quietness of the countryside, or maybe just the effect of food and the release from tension, but I felt quite light-headed, almost a little drunk, though I had had no alcohol. Whatever it was I was no longer as alert as I should have been and we were on top of the road block before I realised it. There was an armoured car drawn half-way across the road and a jeep parked nearby, and a soldier was holding up his hand to halt us. I stopped, feeling sick with shock and disappointment. He came forward and looked in.
“Can I see your identity cards, please?” The tone was formal but not unpleasant.
Trying desperately to look unconcerned. I fumbled in my bag and produced the cards. He inspected them, glanced at my face and at the children, then said, “Do you have a travel permit?”
“Travel permit?” I said stupidly.
He gazed at me dispassionately.“You need a permit to travel more than twenty miles from the address on this card. By my reckoning you’re about fifty miles from home. Can I see your permit, please?”
I swallowed. “I haven’t got one ... I didn’t realise . . . .”
He opened my door. “You’d better get out. Sergeant!” As I got out another man appeared from behind the armoured car and came over to us. The soldier handed him our identity cards.
“Fifty miles from home and she hasn’t got a travel permit, sarge,” he said laconically.
The sergeant inspected the cards and then turned to me. He had a cheerful, weathered face and his manner was kindly. Instinct told me that here was a man who might find a helpless woman very appealing.
“Where are you heading for, missus?” he asked.
I gave him a wide-eyed, desolate gaze.“I’m trying to get to my parent’s home in Wales. My mother’s very ill. They need me.”
“Well, why didn’t you get yourself a travel permit then?” he asked reasonably.
“I —I never thought. The message only came last night. I just packed and —set off.”
He shook his head and clicked his tongue.“You’ve no business driving around this area with two kids. They’d have told you that if you’d applied for a permit —given you a safer route, most likely. I dunno. How you got this far without being stopped is a mystery to me.”
“I’ve got to get there, I said, with a tone of urgent pleading which came easily. “Please, couldn’t you let me pass?”
He shook his head and pursed his lips. I had made a tactical error in asking him to break regulations.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid, missus. Against orders, you see. Now look, best thing you can do is go to the proper authorities and ask for a pass.”
“But where do I have to go?” I asked. “It all takes time and I’ve got to hurry.”
“Well, you should have gone to your local police station,” he said, judiciously sucking in his cheeks. “But I tell you what. Try the authorities in Oxford. There’s a command post there. If you explain your reasons to them they might give you a permit to carry on. That’s the best I can do for you, I’m afraid.”
I gazed into his face. I had never thought it was in me to wheedle and had despised what used to be called ‘feminine wiles’.
“Couldn’t you just forget you ever saw us? We’ll be in Wales by tonight and no-one will ever know.”
&nbs
p; Slowly he shook his head. “Sorry, luv. Honest, it’s for your own good. There are some very dodgy areas north of here,with some very funny people around. We couldn’t guarantee your safety. I couldn’t take the responsibility for letting you go off on your own.” He turned and called “Carter!” Another private appeared. “Get in the car and drive this lady and her children to the command post in Oxford, and then get back here on the double.”
Once again I moved over and let someone else drive. I could feel the children tense on the back seat but I was glad, at least, of their silence.
After a bit I said innocently, “What’s going on then? Why are you blocking the roads?”
“Orders,” Carter said. Obviously he was not a great communicator. He was a thin young man with an outstanding crop of acne.
“But why?” I persisted. “And why did your sergeant say it was dangerous to go on?”
“Commie rebels,” he replied, his tone flat and nasal. Then he added, “They’ve been giving us a lot of trouble round here. The Russians have sent in a lot of agitators.”
“The Russians?” I queried.
“Oh ay,” he nodded without taking his eyes off the road. “They want to start a civil war, see. So they can step in and take over.”
I was silent for a while. Then I said, “I thought it was the trades unions, the workers—just wanting the right to strike and so on.”
He gave a low, catarrhal snort. “You don’t want to believe that! That’s just white-wash. It’s the reds that are behind it. Them, and the Arabs.”
“But isn’t it ordinary English workers that you’re fighting?” I asked.
“Silly sods!” he said, then automatically, “ ’Scuse language. Don’t know when they’re well off. Lazy buggers! I’d give them strike! They ought to be in the army.”
I left it at that and lapsed into weary silence. We came to the outskirts of Oxford and it was apparent at once that the whole city was an armed camp. Along the by-pass tanks and troop carriers were parked nose to tail and almost the only vehicles moving were military ones. On open areas I saw field guns deployed, their crews lounging round them.
We passed through several road blocks and came into the centre of the city. I had always had a favourite fantasy about going to Oxford University and had spent happy days sight-seeing there. Now there were sentries outside the college gateways and armoured cars at every intersection. The usually thronged streets were empty, a tank was parked by Magdalen bridge and there was an army encampment in Christ Church meadows. As far as I could tell the ancient buildings were undamaged, but as in Reading the streets were littered with signs of conflict — broken windows, burnt out cars and torn up paving stones.
As we turned into the Broad the atmosphere abruptly changed. The streets were cleared of debris, banners and bunting were being put up, all red, white and blue with the initials of the NUP and the KBG prominent. A platform was being erected and crash barriers being put up.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
Carter shrugged. “Search me.”
We drew up outside a police station which appeared to have been taken over, at least partially, by the Army. Armed sentries stood on guard by the main door and a sergeant was checking everyone who entered.
Carter explained tersely, “Lady needs a travel permit, sarge.” Then he nodded briefly in my direction and left.
The sergeant handed us on to a police constable, who said, “Have a bit of a wait, I’m afraid. Take a seat over there, will you.”
We sat down with a number of other people on benches along one wall. A clerk at a desk was calling people up one by one and apparently taking down their particulars. These he handed to another man who disappeared with them through some swing doors, while the applicant returned to his seat. From time to time the man returned and beckoned someone from the queue. Judging from the intervals between such events we were in for a long wait.
Tim leaned against me. “Do we have to wait, Mummy?”
“I’m afraid so, darling.”
We sat on for almost an hour. Once I was called to the desk to show my identity card and explain my business, but that was all. The boys grew restless and fretful. I tried to talk to them to occupy their minds, but there was little conversation among the others waiting and we felt foolish and conspicuous when we spoke.
Suddenly there was a sound of sirens outside and the noise of engines. Simon jumped up and looked through a window.
“There are some cars coming —big cars —and some soldiers on motor-bikes. And a police car in front with its light flashing.”
I was aware of a sudden flurry of activity in the station and several officers, both police and army, came quickly through the swing doors. The sirens moaned into silence outside and someone opened the doors wide. Everyone’s eyes turned to see who was coming in.
Simon cried out, “Mummy, I can see Aunty Clare! It’s Aunty Clare, Mummy!”
A moment later Jocelyn Wentworth came into the station, surrounded by officers and aides in civilian dress. Clare was behind him, carrying a dispatch case. The party stopped in the middle of the room to be greeted by the waiting officers.
I had come to my feet, my throat dry and closed. Should I try to attract Clare’s attention? Or would that be the worst thing I could do?
While I stood paralysed with indecision the party moved on towards the swing doors. Jocelyn’s face was at its most austere and commanding, his eyes, more sunken than ever, passed over the antics of his hosts as they fell over each other in sycophantic courtesy.
As they were about to pass through the doors Tim suddenly shouted, “Aunty Clare! It’s us! Aunty Clare!”
Clare turned for an instant in the doorway. I knew she had seen us but her face gave no clue to her reaction. Then she followed the rest through the doors.
I said shakily, “I don’t know if you should have done that, Tim.”
“Why not?” he said. “She didn’t know we were here, did she?”
We sat down again, aware of curious glances from the others. I was trembling and my head ached. In the midst of my anxiety I found myself thinking ‘I’d give anything for a cup of tea!’ The children were nagging me with questions about what Clare was doing here and why she had not spoken to us. I wondered about the reason for her presence too. It seemed likely that Jocelyn was to be the chief guest at some kind of victory rally to celebrate the downfall of the Oxford militants. I thought bitterly of Clare’s arrival in contrast to my own, borne along in the wake of Jocelyn’s power and prestige, marked out now more than ever as a member of a dominant caste. It occurred to me that she probably had a good deal of power of her own, and to wonder how she would exercise it in our direction.
Some time later a soldier appeared and spoke to the man behind the desk. He looked up and called,
“Mrs Fairing?”
I went over, the children following.
“This way, please.”
The soldier led us through the swing doors and up a flight of stairs. We waited, the children clutching my hands, while he knocked at the door and looked in.
“Mrs Fairing is here.”
Then he stood back and signalled us to enter.
Clare was sitting behind a desk on which was the brief case and several piles of papers. She sat back as we came in and ran her hand over her smoothly brushed hair, looking at me with something close to exasperation.
“Nell, what on earth are you doing here?”
I studied her face. Under the careful make-up she looked tired, almost haggard. I looked at the hard lines of her mouth and knew that I could not afford to be completely honest.
“I’m trying to get to my parents’ place in Wales,” I said. “My mother has had a heart attack. I must go and look after her.”
Clare frowned at me and then looked down at a paper on her desk.
“Apparently you are travelling without a permit.”
“Yes. I just didn’t think about it. After all, we’re not used . . . .”
>
Really, Nell, you infuriate me!” She rose abruptly and moved round the desk. “Can’t you realize even now that things have changed? I told you months ago that it would have to happen. We are in the middle of the greatest national emergency in our history and you expect to go trapesing around the country as if nothing had happened!”
She broke off and made another swift pass at her hair. As the interview went on I realized that this had become a habitual gesture, a reaction to any stress or indecision. Then she turned back to the desk, saying, “Oh, sit down for heaven’s sake! We’d better have some tea.”
She pressed a button on the intercom and ordered tea and, as an after thought, orange for the boys. I sank down into a chair, feeling that some semblance of normality had been restored.
Clare resumed her seat also and said, “Now, what’s all this about your mother?”
“She’s had a heart attack. I’ve got to go and nurse her.”
“When did you hear this?”
“Last night. My father telephoned.”
“Telephoned?” Clare’s beautifully defined eyebrows rose fractionally. “I’m surprised he got through. The telephone service is supposed to be for emergencies only for the time being.”
“I know,” I replied hastily. “I suppose he must have persuaded someone that this was an emergency.”
In fact I had made several attempts to contact my parents by phone in the last weeks without success. Letters also failed to arrive. I had put this down to general disruption but I saw now that it was all part of the government’s policy of preventing people from finding out what was going on in the rest of the country.
“But surely your mother is in hospital if the attack was serious,” Clare was saying.
“Oh she is,” I agreed, wondering desperately where the nearest hospital was. “But Dad said they are letting her go home in a day or two. That’s why I must be there.”
“They won’t let her out until she’s able to manage,” Clare said firmly. “Hospital staff aren’t fools, you know. They know how difficult it is for people to travel at the moment. They will keep her in if you’re not there to look after her.”
