Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘You can tell they were all very good at knots and helping Mother,’ Fenella said.

  ‘I wish you’d go home,’ Julian said. ‘I’m sure Wentwood agrees. This is really no place for a woman.’

  ‘Stop fussing, Julian, and don’t be so old-fashioned. Look at all those Blackshirt girls. They’ve come along – why shouldn’t I? You’re not really saying that women shouldn’t get mixed up in politics, I hope?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’

  ‘I think Dawlish is right, actually,’ Rory murmured. ‘About your being here, I mean.’

  Fenella glared impartially at them. ‘I’m not leaving. That’s flat. I think you’re both being most unreasonable. Besides, you shouldn’t be seen talking to us, Rory. Go away.’

  Dawlish opened his mouth but said nothing. For the first time in their acquaintance, Rory felt a stab of sympathy for the man. Where Fenella was concerned, the poor devil really had it bad.

  ‘Can we meet afterwards?’ Rory said. ‘There are some things I need to tell you – not just about the meeting.’

  Dawlish nodded. ‘Shall we say the American Bar again? Five thirty, all being well?’

  ‘Fine,’ Rory said, though it wasn’t, because if he got there before Julian, or if Julian failed to turn up, he might have to pay for a drink, which at the Savoy’s prices would probably wipe out most of his budget for December. Besides, Julian had paid for the champagne last night so really Rory couldn’t get out of paying. And then there was the tip: he had no idea how much one left in a place like that.

  ‘Good man,’ Dawlish said. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Fenella said. ‘Why don’t we meet at the flat instead? It’s nearer and more private.’

  Dawlish shrugged. ‘All right. Are you happy with that?’

  Rory nodded, feeling simultaneously relieved and humiliated; he suspected that Fenella had guessed what he was thinking.

  ‘If we’re not there, the spare key’s in the coal hole opposite the area door,’ Dawlish went on. ‘There’s a tin of whitewash on the floor. It’s underneath that.’

  They separated, Julian and Fenella waiting in the cloister, and Rory going down into the undercroft. A couple of uniformed Fascists were manning the door and stood aside to let him pass, their faces impassive. A very pretty girl, also in Fascist uniform, smiled at him as he passed the tables and said, ‘Lunch in the interval, sir. Sir Rex is going to open the proceedings first.’

  The undercroft was already filling up. As he walked down the centre aisle beside the line of posts, Rory tried to make a rough headcount: he estimated that there were chairs and benches for at least three hundred people, as well as some standing room at the back. Perhaps two thirds of the seats had already been taken. He found a chair near the front at the end of a row.

  Nobody was on the platform. A microphone had been set up on the table. A man who could throw his voice wouldn’t really need a public address system here. But Rory remembered the political meetings he had attended in India, and how an amplified voice had power over those that were not amplified. You had to hand it to the Fascists – they knew how to organize a meeting.

  Two tall Blackshirts marched down the centre aisle holding what Rory assumed to be poles. Behind them came a third, who was even taller. It was Marcus Langstone. The three men climbed onto the stage. Not just poles, Rory thought – flagstaffs. They set up the two flags in a cast-iron stand behind the central chair. On the left was the British Union’s symbol; on the right was the Union Jack.

  Fimberry bustled through the crowd, rubbing his hands together and smiling at no one in particular. He caught sight of Rory. ‘Hello, Wentwood!’ he said in a high, slightly tremulous voice. ‘Already taking notes, I see.’

  Rory nodded. Langstone turned around. His eyes swept from Fimberry to Rory at the end of his row. Rory bent his head over his notepad and pretended to write. Sweat pricked along his hairline.

  No time to think, which was probably just as well. Lydia came through the wicket from Bleeding Heart Square and almost immediately turned right into the little forecourt in front of the chapel. The door to the cloister was ajar. She pushed it open.

  Soft, grey light filtered through the line of windows on the left-hand side. Two tall men were standing near the door to the undercroft. Nobody else was in sight. She walked rapidly along the cloister, her heels tapping on the flags.

  The men straightened up. They were standing either side of the steps leading down to the undercroft door, which was closed. Their black tunics made them look sinister but the first thing Lydia noticed was how young they were. One of them had plump, pink cheeks and pale, straight hair like straw. He looked as if he belonged in a ploughboy’s smock. The other was smaller and darker, with bow legs and a wizened face like a monkey’s.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Lydia said. ‘I presume this is where the meeting is?’

  ‘Sorry, madam,’ said the smaller Blackshirt. ‘You can’t go in at present.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Sir Rex’s speaking. If you care to wait for the interval—’

  ‘I don’t care to wait at all.’ Lydia threw back her head and thought: How would Mother handle this? ‘Do you know who I am, young man?’

  ‘Madam, my orders are—’

  ‘Mr Langstone is my husband,’ Lydia said imperiously, raising her voice and hearing it resonating down the corridor, bouncing off the stones. ‘And Sir Rex is a close personal friend. Please open that door immediately, or I shall have to take your names.’

  It was the ploughboy who wilted first. Then the monkey said, ‘All right, madam. But you will be as quiet as possible, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think I need your advice on how to behave,’ Lydia said. ‘Do you?’

  The smaller man lifted the latch of the door with infinite care and pushed it open. Lydia went down the steps. Rex Fisher’s amplified voice swept out to meet her.

  ‘Dozens of you men here today will have fought in the war, as did many members of the British Union. Neither we nor you have forgotten the lessons we learned in those dark days when we stood shoulder to shoulder together against the foe.’

  The door closed behind her. Lydia paused for a moment on the last step. The undercroft was full of people. She took in the tables on the left, the crowd standing at the back, the packed seats in the body of the undercroft and the dais at the end.

  Five chairs behind the table on the platform were now occupied. Marcus was on the far left. Sir Rex was in the middle. He was on his feet, with his hands planted on the table. His eyes travelled around the hall, capturing his audience. She hoped he hadn’t seen her.

  ‘And what have we seen since the war?’ he was saying. ‘I will tell you the sad and shameful truth. We have seen a succession of fumbling and inconsistent British governments composed of old men who learned their trade, in so far as they learned anything at all, when Queen Victoria was on the throne. Under their bungling direction, we have seen this country’s influence gradually diminish in the world. We have seen great cracks opening up in our empire; and our empire should be not only our greatest glory but also our greatest safeguard, both politically and economically. It is no coincidence that at the same time Britain’s economy has plunged further and further into gloom. We have seen the country paralysed by a general strike fomented by foreign agitators. Our economy has been blighted by a depression that was entirely avoidable. Yes, I emphasize that word – avoidable.’

  By now Lydia had mingled with the crowd. She had turned up the collar of her coat and she wore a scarf over her head. It was a pity there were not more women here. She couldn’t help but stand out.

  Fisher paused. ‘However, one politician has been neither fumbling nor inconsistent. One politician has come forward to offer clear and effective leadership. As early as February 1930, the British Union’s leader, Sir Oswald Mosley, who was then in the government as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, produced a memorandum for his colleagues. It outlined a comprehen
sive policy which, had the government had the guts to adopt it, would have reversed this downward trend and brought the country to unparalleled levels of prosperity. We must protect our home markets, Sir Oswald said – and the only way to do that, both then and now, is by the introduction of tariffs to regulate trade. We must control the banks to promote investment. Nor can we allow agriculture to languish, Sir Oswald pointed out, because we shall always need to feed ourselves. The government must create jobs with road-building and other projects that will in time have the further benefit of enabling our economy to function more efficiently than ever. And what of our industries? We cannot do without them. Yet they are still run on piecemeal nineteenth-century principles. The government must give a firm lead. That, after all, is what governments are for.’

  Lydia sheltered behind a tall man in a black overcoat and hat.

  ‘Our great industries,’ Fisher continued, ‘because of this lack of direction, have failed to take account of the changes in science and technology so they can no longer compete effectively with the industries of countries that have modernized more quickly and more effectively. The solution is in our own hands. The British Empire is the greatest empire the world has ever seen. We have the means of production; we have the raw materials; we have the expertise; we have the dogged determination and courage – and of course we have the markets as well. This country and its empire can and should stand alone. That is where our future economic prosperity must lie.’

  Lydia glanced around her. Unfortunately she couldn’t see Rory. But she accidentally caught the eye of Mr Smethwick, standing near the tea urns, who immediately looked away.

  ‘Since the war,’ Fisher was now saying, ‘one government after another has led us deeper and deeper into the mire by promoting the import of foreign goods. They have allowed the big City financiers to feather their own nests by making loans to foreign countries, thereby damaging British manufacturing and British agriculture. As Sir Oswald has said, and I quote, “ These are alien hands which too long have held their strangle grip on the life of this country and dominate not only the Conservative Party but the Socialist Party as well.” There’s one thing you can trust the British Union to do when we come to power: we shall not allow aliens’ – he paused, laying stress on the last word – ‘to dictate economic policy for selfish reasons of their own.’

  There was a spattering of applause among the audience. The tall man in front of Lydia muttered something under his breath and stirred as though he wanted to scratch.

  ‘Fascism can provide the answers. Not Fascism as it flourishes in Germany or in Italy – but a truly British Fascism adapted to our native genius. A Fascist government will be a strong government. But it will be first and foremost a British government presided over by His Majesty the King.’

  ‘What about Parliament?’ a voice cried somewhere near the front of the hall.

  ‘I’m glad you mentioned that, sir,’ Fisher said urbanely. ‘All governments work with Parliament, and we shall be no exception. However, under our system government departments will consult the various economic influences, whether employers, workers or consumers, and then determine what is best suited to the country as a whole. We shall set targets for output, wages, prices and profits within each industry. It is the only way to develop a coordinated and fully efficient economy. Parliament will play an important role in this, and so of course will the monarch. I cannot emphasize enough that Fascists are, above all, loyal subjects of the Crown.’

  ‘What about the Jews then?’ somebody else shouted.

  Fisher ignored this. ‘We were talking of the war a moment ago. We live not only under the shadow of the last war, but under the shadow of a future war, into which our present government may lead us through its blundering and inadequate policies. The British Union of Fascists has a domestic programme that does not depend on preparing for war. Our foreign policy is based on the maintenance of peace.’

  There was more applause, this time louder and more prolonged.

  ‘Make no mistake, with a Fascist government, this country will be stronger and more formidable than ever on the world stage. But we will be an international force for peace. We know too well, as you do, the folly of war. We know too that prosperity depends on the maintenance of peace. In the second half of this meeting I propose to deal in more detail with how the British Union intends to regulate the distributive trade by coordinating competition and controlling what is sold and by whom, through a distributive trades corporation that would issue licences, a system that would prevent both the growth of too many suppliers of a particular sort of goods in any one area, and also the unhealthy dominance of large retailers. We shall insist too, as part of the terms of the licensing, that retail outlets deal in British goods. Alien combines will be closed down and their retailing operations will be redistributed to private traders or cooperatives. Moreover, a cooperative central buying organization would allow small shopkeepers to take advantage of low wholesale prices through bulk purchases. It would also provide a safety net in the event of bankruptcy.’

  This led to more applause and even a few scattered hurrahs. A man at the back of the hall called out, ‘But what about the Jews?’

  ‘British Fascism is the only British political party that takes a firm, clear line on aliens,’ announced Fisher’s calm, patrician voice. ‘Britain should be for the British.’

  ‘You’re just like the Nazis, are you?’ shouted the tall man in front of Lydia. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  At that moment, in the silence that followed the question, Lydia realized that the man in front of her was Mr Goldman from Hatton Garden.

  ‘We have no quarrel with those of Jewish blood per se,’ Fisher said.

  ‘Your Mr Joyce says, and these are his very words: “I don’t regard the Jews as a class, I regard them as a privileged misfortune.” That was in January. Your Mosley says that Fascism has accepted the challenge of Jewry. What challenge?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. The British Union requires the Jews, as we require everyone else, to put the interests of Britain first.’

  ‘And your Mr A. K. Chesterton said—’

  ‘That will be all, thank you,’ Fisher said. ‘You seem to have forgotten that I am addressing this meeting, sir. It’s time for you to return to Jerusalem. See the gentleman out, please.’

  An eddy rippled through the standing crowd as three Blackshirts pushed their way towards Mr Goldman.

  ‘Answer the question, sir,’ somebody else shouted. ‘What challenge do the Jews pose? Are you aware that—’

  ‘I’m aware that another gentleman would like to leave,’ Fisher said. ‘To return to the matter in hand—’

  ‘Do you realize that in Germany—’

  The question ended in a gasp, as if someone had hit the questioner. At least a dozen people were shouting now and fighting was breaking out sporadically throughout the audience. Lydia watched in a daze as Fisher beckoned to a young man at the end of the platform and murmured something in his ear.

  The Blackshirts reached Mr Goldman. Two of them grabbed him by the arms. The third man put his head in an armlock.

  Lydia snapped out of her trance. ‘You stop that!’ she shouted, and kicked the man as hard as she could in his calf.

  He looked at her, open-mouthed in astonishment. ‘Here,’ he said, not relaxing the armlock, ‘you can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Lydia asked, and kicked him in the other leg.

  The Blackshirts began to drag Goldman towards the door to the cloister. Suddenly the public address system burst into life. ‘Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1’ boomed through the undercroft. Marcus was advancing into the audience with a couple of Blackshirts behind him. He pointed to his right. Lydia followed his finger and saw Rory, notebook in hand, in the act of standing up.

  Behind her, one of the urns toppled off its table and somebody shouted, ‘Watch out! The water’s bloody boiling!’ The table itself went over with a clatter, and crockery smashed on the stone floor. �
�Pomp and Circumstance’ pursued its stately course, a serene and triumphal counterpoint to the racket.

  They hauled Goldman onto the short flight of steps up to the cloister. He lost his hat and his overcoat was ripped down the back. Three respectable-looking middle-aged men, none of them in Blackshirt uniform, shouted in unison, ‘Jew out, Jew out.’ They looked like a trio of tobacconists or ironmongers on an outing, determined to extract the utmost fun from the occasion.

  A large blonde man in ridiculously wide Oxford bags took a swing at one of the Blackshirts manhandling Mr Goldman. The blow missed and the Blackshirt punched his attacker in the mouth, knocking off his glasses. The man reeled back, a hand to his mouth and blood seeping through his fingers.

  ‘Jew out, Jew out.’

  A small woman slipped under the blonde man’s arm and punched the advancing Blackshirt in the testicles. He screamed and doubled up. The scream was high and loud and so like an animal’s that it shocked everyone except Elgar into a moment’s silence.

  Lydia felt a momentary but painful twinge of jealousy. The woman was Fenella Kensley.

  The noise began again. Mr Goldman’s attendant Black-shirts turned aside to deal with the blonde man, Fenella and a couple of other men who had come to their support. Taking advantage of their absence, Lydia ran across to Mr Goldman and helped him to his feet. He groaned and swayed.

  ‘Quick,’ she urged. ‘We’ve got to get out.’

  Linked together, they staggered down the cloister. The blonde man ran after them, and took Mr Goldman’s other arm. Fenella followed them. Mr Goldman was flagging badly. At the door to the chapel forecourt, Lydia glanced back over her shoulder. Marcus had come up the steps from the undercroft. He saw her: his face was white and twisted, a stranger’s.

  ‘The house over the road,’ Lydia snapped. ‘I’ve got a key.’