When Beggars Dye

by Peter Hey

  The boy next to Jimmy was anxiously fidgeting. He knew he should be standing to attention, eyes fixed dead ahead, but he couldn’t resist leaning forward and looking down the line.

  ‘I can see him. The Leader’s coming!’ he whispered.

  Jimmy pulled his shoulders back and stretched his neck. He was taller than the other boys, though not yet as tall as the Leader himself. Few were. The youngster had his jet-black hair slicked back like the Leader’s, and his uniform of grey shirt and grey trousers had been freshly pressed by his mother. Jimmy himself had spent hours polishing his black boots and belt. He knew he looked the part and hoped to catch the Leader’s eye as he passed. Jimmy fantasised that the great man would stop, perhaps not to speak to the lowly cadet, but simply nod his head in approval at this model of fascist youth and England’s future.

  There had been a violent row with his father when Jimmy had left that morning. The older man had raised his hand, but then dropped it. Those days were gone. His lungs, scarred by poison gas in the trenches, increasingly sapped his strength and he saw a contempt in his son’s eyes that suggested he would now hit back. For his part, Jimmy couldn’t understand his father’s antipathy towards the fascist movement. It was for old soldiers like him, betrayed by successive governments of weak fools, that the Leader was striving to build a new order. The war had reduced Jimmy’s father to a pathetic apology of a man, and the reward for his sacrifice was the poverty of the 1930s and a country increasingly being run by Jewish money and corruption. The Leader made everything clear and he was the one man with an answer. England had to change and the alternative to fascism was the unbearable totalitarianism of the filthy communists and their Russian Bolshevik masters.

  The press had been forewarned of the parade and told that thousands of ordinary East Enders would gather to hear the Leader’s famed oratory as he laid out his vision for the country and its empire. Since Rothermere’s Daily Mail had baulked at the violence of the fascist rallies and abandoned its support, the Leader knew the papers could be expected to be unanimously hostile. The Battle of Cable Street had happened earlier that month. The fascist propaganda machine, run by a scar-faced man named William Joyce, was telling anyone who’d listen not to believe the lie that the East End had risen up to give the fascists a bloody nose. The fighting had been between the police and a largely imported mob of anarchists, communists, trade unionists, Irishmen and Jews. The Leader, Joyce said, had kept his own men under control for the sake of law and order.

  But now the Leader knew he had to demonstrate that he still had support in his heartland and its streets were not forbidden him. Even if Fleet Street’s editorials were derisory, he would show he was not afraid to march, though he was careful to avoid Cable Street itself.

  The military voice barked out the order and a forest of right arms shot out in the salute that Mussolini’s followers believed they were copying from ancient Romans and had been adopted with even greater fervour by the Nazis.

  Jimmy’s own arm was quivering with intensity, yet his focus almost slipped when the Leader drew level. At close quarters he was even more striking than his photographs suggested. He was wearing the new ‘Action Press’ uniform: black knee-length jackboots, polished like a mirror, breeches, a tight black tunic with shining buttons grouped in threes, black shirt and tie, and a soldier’s black peaked cap. Black on black on black, sharply accentuated by a blood-red armband carrying the party emblem of a lightning bolt cleaving a circle. He looked like a Hollywood vision of a futuristic military commander: noble, lean, strong. Irresistible. He marched quickly, his confident strides largely disguising his limp, a legacy of his own wartime heroism. In that instant, Jimmy’s mind flashed forward to a time when he too would be old enough to abandon the grey of a cadet. He saw himself standing at the Leader’s side, wearing that tunic and with a similar debonair moustache on his upper lip. Jimmy knew he was one of the few who could properly carry it off. A different image of himself with the tall, aristocratic man interrupted but Jimmy immediately suppressed it. It was an impulse he could not yet accept.

  Perhaps it was Jimmy’s handsome young face or the backdrop of billowing flags, but a flash gun went off as the Leader passed by. When developed, the picture was so powerful that the editor considered suppressing it. Instead he buried it on the centre pages, heading a suitably dismissive article. Nonetheless it caught the eyes of those in office. In later life, Mosley would accept that Action Press had been a mistake: compared to the simple black fencing shirt that preceded it, it was far too militaristic in appearance. Others noted the similarity to the uniform of the Nazi SS, men who had been responsible for the mass killings during the Night of the Long Knives two years before. The government’s response was to rush in the Public Order Act that banned the wearing of all political uniforms from the start of 1937.

  By then, Jimmy was lying in a hospital bed anxiously awaiting the removal of bandages that swathed his head. Marching around, preening like a chocolate soldier now seemed a foolish and empty ambition.

  American presidents

  Jane got back to Nottingham in the late afternoon. On the journey she realised she’d completely reappraised her opinion of Julian Stothard. Contrary to her initial impression, he possessed considerable charm and a good sense of humour. They’d spent over an hour together at the pub and the sunny weather, pretty setting and lively conversation had made it a very pleasant experience. They each shared stories of their marital difficulties and separations, though neither resorted to vindictiveness or bitterness when describing their ex-partners. Julian talked of missing his two young sons but said his wife was a good mother and conceded that the amount of time he spent travelling on business meant it was better they were with her and her family. He was flying back to the States the following day, but suggested he and Jane meet up next time he was in the UK. The excuse was to discuss developments on the family tree, but dinner was mentioned and she allowed herself to infer that her burgeoning attraction to him was not one-sided.

  Jane parked outside her house and switched off the ignition. Sitting in the car with the fan still whirring air over the otherwise silent engine, she put Julian to the back of her mind and checked her phone. On Facebook, there was nothing from Chris Aimson; however, one of the Dean Smiths had replied. He said he wasn’t and had never heard of anyone called Dean Ernald James Smith, but he thought Jane’s profile picture looked hot and wondered if she fancied meeting up. Jane sent him a brief thanks but no thanks. Switching to her email account, she found a new message from Tommy.

  Hi Jane

  I’ve been doing some more digging around on the Interwebs. I’ve found some stuff that I think you’ll find really, really interesting. In no particular order (well, building up to a crescendo, actually :-)

  1. Ernald, as in (Dean) Ernald James Smith, was Oswald Mosley’s middle name. But then it was also the name of a Scottish bishop who died in 1163.

  2. I found a old newspaper report (see attached file) from April 1944. It concerns the death of Woodrow ‘Woody’ Jensen, the first husband of Mary Butler/Dye/Jensen/Smith, our mysterious fourth sister. I’d assumed he’d been killed in action, or at least in some kind of flying accident. He wasn’t. Read the article for yourself. It’s written under the constraints of wartime censorship and the moral sensitivities of the time, but the message seems clear. Sergeant Woody Jensen was killed by a fellow member of the US Army Air Force, a clerk named Corporal Henry Abrams, who subsequently shot himself. It’s heavily implied that it was a row between lovers. They were in a Norfolk cottage rented by Abrams and their ‘state of undress called into question the relationship between the two men’. The matter had been handed over from the local constabulary to the US military police, who were understood ‘not to be looking for any other suspects in this unfortunate matter’. It goes on to describe Jensen as a veteran of numerous raids over occupied Europe and suggests battle fatigue could explain ‘any weakness of character displayed in this sorry incident’. Abrams, on the
other hand, ‘had a certain reputation amongst locals’. The article ends with the reporter praising ‘our American allies who take the war to the Nazi homeland on an almost daily basis’ and saying that the ‘occasional bad apple will not rot this heroic barrel’.

  3. I came across a post on one of the forums I subscribe to. It was from someone looking for Lois Elizabeth Jensen, Woody and Mary’s daughter. I made initial contact (see attached transcript) and it turns out it’s Woody’s younger brother, Herbert Jensen, trying to find his long-lost niece. He lives in Minneapolis and wants to talk on the phone; I’m not great with phone calls and it’s best you talk to him anyway. I haven’t told him yet that Lois is dead.

  The plot thickens! That’s about it for now. Let me know how you get on with Herbert Jensen.

  All the best,

  Tommy x

  Jane sat back and digested the revelations in Tommy’s email. Woody Jensen was homosexual, or at least bisexual, and was having a relationship with another man, presumably behind his new wife’s back. Homosexuality was, of course, illegal at the time and considered shameful in many, if not most, quarters. The circumstances of his death were somewhat sordid. Could this be the reason the Dye family eventually disowned his widow, Mary? Perhaps she hid the story from her sisters and parents and it only came to light much later. But would you really pretend your sister had never been born because of something like this, something unpalatable, but something her deceased husband did, not Mary herself? You might consider it embarrassing and suppress the incident itself. Surely you wouldn’t block your own flesh and blood out of your life?

  Jane checked the time in Minnesota. It was late morning. Herbert Jensen might hold a few more clues. Even if he didn’t, he deserved to know what little information Jane could give him about his niece’s life. Jane picked up her phone and dialled.

  ‘Herb Jensen speaking. Good morning and how may I help you?’

  ‘Mr Jensen, my name’s Jane Madden. I’m phoning from England. You exchanged some messages with my colleague about Lois Elizabeth Jensen. I understand she was your brother’s daughter and you want to find out what happened to her.’

  ‘My dear, thank you so much for calling me. I’ve been trying to track down little Lois for some time. I’m pretty good on the Internet, well, for an old-timer in his eighties. Yet no matter where I looked, the trail ran cold.’

  ‘We struggled to pin her down too. Her mother remarried and she became Lois Smith.’

  ‘So you can put me in touch with her? I don’t know how much time I have left, only the good Lord knows that. I don’t want to go to my grave without asking her forgiveness for not seeking her out years ago. Whatever sins my brother may have committed, they were not hers.’

  Jane registered the word sins and then spoke in what she hoped was a caring tone. ’Mr Jensen, I’m afraid I have some bad news. You might want to sit down.’ She paused long enough for Herb Jensen to guess what was coming. ‘Your niece is no longer with us. She was lost to cancer when she was just 61. I’m so sorry.’

  The line went quiet and then there was an audible sigh followed by a slightly faltering voice. ‘I always knew there’d be a good chance she’d have passed. It’s been so long. Thank you for telling me. Did she have any family of her own?’

  ‘Her husband is also dead, but they had one son, whom I’m currently trying to contact. His name is Christopher Aimson. He’d be in his forties now.’

  ‘Your colleague pointed me at your website. I understand you are a professional genealogist. May I ask your interest in my niece’s family?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s betraying commercial confidentiality to say I’m working on behalf of her English relatives. Tell me, Mr Jensen, would you be prepared to talk to me about your brother and what you know of his marriage? It could be very helpful and may help me find his grandson.’

  ‘We were named after the presidents who were in office when we were born, you know. Woodrow Wilson and Herbert Hoover. Our parents set their sights so high. Woody was...’

  The voice tailed off. Jane responded to the silence with a gentle prompt. ‘He was stationed in England in the war. He married an English girl.’

  There was another delay before Herb Jensen replied. ‘It was a lifetime ago, but it’s still rather difficult for me, I’m afraid.’

  Jane tried to address the old man’s reluctance. ‘Mr Jensen. My colleague is a very experienced and talented researcher. He found a newspaper article from the time of your brother’s death. It describes the incident pretty clearly. As I understand it, he was murdered by another man. He himself was guilty of no crime, certainly not in the eyes of the law today.’

  ‘Thank you for your tact, my dear. I know that people are more, well, understanding these days. But we’re a Christian family. I forgive my brother but it’s still hard. It’s still a sin in the eyes of the Lord. It brought great pain to my mother and father. I was only a young boy. Woody was much older than me and he was always my hero when I was growing up. He wasn’t the most physically imposing of men, but he seemed to have such moral strength and courage. My parents told everyone, told me, that he’d died when his bomber was shot out of the sky. He was a ball turret gunner in the belly of the plane, crammed in a little glass bubble with two heavy machine guns on either side of him. It was so dangerous, and if the plane was going down it wasn’t easy to get out. I used to have nightmares about him being trapped with flames all round him as he crashed to earth. I only found out the truth of how he really died much later, and it hurt me – it hurt me considerably. I’m ashamed to say that, even now, I sometimes wish he’d have burnt to death in that damn turret than…’

  The floodgates had opened and Jane had let Herb Jensen disgorge 70 years of remorse and resentment without interruption. Now she could hear him gulping air in an attempt to stop himself breaking down. Despite struggling with some of his sentiments, she began to regret asking such an old man to revisit a painful past.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Jensen. I didn’t mean to upset you like this. If you’d rather not talk about Woody anymore, then please say.’

  ‘No dear. It’s good to talk. That’s what they say isn’t it? And I’ve been hiding from this for too long. My parents didn’t make any attempt to stay in touch with his widow after he died. And her with a young baby too. I think they assumed she was caught up with it somehow. You see, Woody had sent us a photograph of Lois.’

  ‘She was a beautiful little girl.’

  ‘She was. My brother absolutely adored her. But even at a few weeks old she looked nothing like him. Even my mother wouldn’t describe Woody as a good-looking boy. And Lois’s colouring was so dark. We’re a Nordic American family – we’re all very fair.’

  Jane’s reflex was to defend Lois’s parentage. ‘Her looks must have come from her mother’s side. It’s not exactly unusual.’

  ‘Yes, but given how he died, I think my parents decided Lois couldn’t be his. He only married to disguise his true inclinations.’

  ‘I’ve got a copy of Lois’s birth certificate. Your brother is clearly registered as her father.’

  ‘I know that’s the case. Legally. It’s what I’ve been telling myself – Woody said “she is my daughter” and he loved her as such. That’s why I wanted to find her and try to make amends for the way we treated her. Her mother may or may not have been innocent, but the girl certainly was.’

  ‘So please, tell me what you can about her mother. She’d have been called Mary Dye when she met your brother.’

  ‘I only know what Woody wrote in his letters. They’re gone – I’m pretty certain my parents destroyed them after he died – but I read them so many times as a kid I could almost recite them out loud, even though it’s been 70 years. That’s how it feels, anyway.’

  ‘So what did the letters say?’

  ‘Mary was working on a farm near to the airbase. The local girls would come to dances and that’s how Woody met her. She wasn’t the prettiest, nor perhaps the brightest, but Woody to
ld us he fell for her the first time he met her. She was pregnant on their wedding day. It shocked my parents at the time, but it was wartime and they understood that these things happen. And at least Woody was making sure his child wasn’t born out of wedlock. My parents and I never met her, of course. We saw her photograph, but we never knew her. I really can’t tell you much more. Oh, there was one thing. She wasn’t actually a local girl; she came from another part of England. After all these years, I couldn’t tell you where.’

  Jane answered the question. ‘She was from a small coal mining village called Dowley in the county of Derbyshire, about 150 miles away. She had a brother and three sisters. Her brother was in the Royal Navy and died when his ship, HMS Hood, was sunk in 1941.’

  ‘Yes. I remember now. That’s coming back to me. She was very proud of her brother, though very, very sad at his death. He was only a boy too. They were all just boys.’

  ‘Is there anything else you remember? Anything that might cause her to become estranged from her own family, if not then, later in life? Sorry, I know that’s probably a stupid thing to ask. You weren’t in contact after Woody’s death.’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s stupid, but I can’t think of anything. From what Woody wrote, she was a nice, ordinary girl. Maybe a bit flighty sometimes.’

  ‘Flighty?’

  ‘Oh, you know, head in the clouds, rather than feet on the ground. It was just an impression, nothing tangible.’

  After a few more questions, Jane began to realise she was unlikely to glean any more from the call. ‘Mr Jensen, thank you for your time. As I said, I’m trying to track down your brother’s grandson, Christopher Aimson. When and if I do, I’ll tell him of your interest and give him your contact details. Obviously, it will be up to him if he gets in touch, but I assume that’s what you’d like me to do?’