Citizen Survivor Tales (The Ministry of Survivors)

by Denham, Richard

  I never made it to the West End with him though, darling; instead I became an entertainer at the Gentleman’s Clubs. They were some dark days let me tell you and it was rarely my ballads they were after. You’d positively blush if you knew the sorts of things these married, respectable, powerful men desired in the night. Outright perverse, but, because of my beauty, I was treasured, and I was always in control, always calling the shots, yes, believe that, dear. But still, I did grow to hate these men, these church-going men, minsters some of them and I kept a little book, yes a little black book of those particularly villainous men who had come to my attention.

  There was one chap, Mr. Brownlow, at the John Bull club, the chairman in fact, who was as queer as the rest of them but he had a softness and a kindness to him too. He wanted to take me away, ‘My bird in a gilded cage’ he’d call me. He knew my desires still lay in acting and singing, and he was a powerful man. He got me a few auditions and the rest is history. ‘Miss Mauve’ was born. Bates had been watching me at all my shows without my knowledge; once he even burst into my dressing room when I was alone to try to take me against my will. He was obsessed with me, on his knees in tears, thumping the ground, begging for my love, telling me he’d do anything for me, anything as long as he could be near me. I dealt with him and Mr. Brownlow pulled enough strings that it was never an issue, bless his heart.

  (At this point, Louis returned with drinks and vol au vents; he was clearly doing his best in straitened circumstances; the sherry was rather watered down and the vol au vents were empty save for a sliver of potted meat. However, Dame Joan seemed oblivious and, raddled though she might be these days, there is something in her tarnished glory that makes it impossible to upset her.)

  Louis, be a dear; will you put ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’ on. Here darling, listen this is me, wonderful isn’t it?

  (The gramophone is as old and out of touch as its owner, but the weak voice warbling through the static still holds some of the old charm. Joan mouths silently along with the words, waving a finger more or less in time with the music. A foot taps under her gauzy wrap and one of the dogs howls in sympathy.)

  Thank you for that, performance, Joan.

  My pleasure, you lucky thing you. Where were we? Ah yes. My career went from strength to strength and Miss Mauve became a household name. I was the embodiment of the West End, and all the mystery and glamour that went with it. This picture of me here, long flowing blonde hair covering one eye, those lips, yes, this picture was everywhere. They were simply wonderful years. I married Mr. Brownlow and we lived like royalty in London.

  But as always, the charm of a gentleman soon disappears, Mr. Brownlow turned out to be little better than Mr. Bates in the end. Mr. Brownlow simply didn’t trust me; he knew my background, you see and he became consumed with jealousy, I really did become a bird in a gilded cage, I tell you, and he hated, absolutely hated, the thought of other men pining after me. He would never say it, but I knew he was doing everything he could behind the scenes to end my career, and he managed it. There were even rumours circulating that I had died, could you believe it! Mr. Brownlow demanded I became a mother to his children but I’d told him a thousand times, due to my time with Mr. Bates and the Gentleman’s Clubs, it wasn’t possible for me to be a mother. I tried to leave Mr. Brownlow, but it seemed, I was under house arrest! Every attempt to leave would end in failure, with the punishment more severe each time, so in the end I simply stopped trying.

  One day, Mr. Brownlow had that unfortunate automobile accident; do you remember it? No, darling, of course you don’t; you weren’t even born then. Drunk as a mule he was and his estate was bequeathed to me. That’s when I really began to live again. I met another chap named Mr. Pickering, who I had known from the John Bull club, not a lover mind but a friend, and my career began again. That was when I had my little flutter in the films, but the Americans were so coarse, darling, they didn’t understand my art at all, so I came straight back home.

  I suppose I didn’t realise how many years had passed. Would you believe, darling, the first show I played was to an empty hall! I didn’t mind, it was nice to have the practice and I don’t think it was promoted very well. I think some people didn’t even believe I was Miss Mauve as it had been so long. Still, Mr Pickering had every faith in me; I even used some of Mr. Brownlow’s estate to buy a hall, which Mr Pickering ran, so I could perform every night. There was never much of an audience, but it’s the quality not the quantity of the crowd that matters. And then of course, darling, war came. Louis! Louis! Would you be a dear and refill our drinks, thank you sweetie.

  (The topped up sherry was even weaker, but Dame Joan scarcely seemed to notice. I do wonder, in retrospect, whether the sherry was watered down for economy’s sake, or to keep the Dame off the hard stuff for as long as possible.)

  How did the war affect things for you?

  Not too much for me I suppose. I remember one night playing in the hall when the sirens went off and the bombs began to fall. The handful of people in the audience fled, but, well, I’m a professional, darling. I carried on with the show, despite the protests of the band. Though how on earth anyone could appreciate my contralto with all that racket is beyond me.

  I remember a meeting with Mr Pickering; he told me he wanted to expand into wholesale supplies, due to the awful rationing that was taking place. He had enough friends in the John Bull club but just needed the initial investment. As the war went on, ‘The John Bull Co-operative Society’ was born. Oh, I know lots of people didn’t approve, nothing but spivs and crooks people would say, but there was a demand, and Mr. Pickering supplied it. With their sharp looks, we brought back a bit of much needed glamour to the country and my hall, well, it was soon bustling. Miss Mauve was the talk of the town again!

  (Dame Joan’s mind is not wandering, as such, but any conversation with her needs a sharp attention to detail to keep up with her. She is suddenly concerned with her clothes for an evening out.)

  Louis, Louis, would you pick me out an outfit for this evening dear, not the hat though. Thank you darling.

  Where was I? Oh, yes; with the ghastly state in London, we decided to relocate to York where there was another John Bull club. I missed the old hall but the new one is just as good, if not better. With the state of the Government, people began to love the John Bull Co-operative Society, and who can blame them.

  The John Bull Co-operative Society has been accused of simply being a front for organised criminality, smuggling, extortion and racketeering, Joan. How do you respond to that?

  Oh, we’ve attracted the odd rogue but Mr. Pickering deals with all of that thing. For me, it’s the show business. What people need right now is glitz, and Miss Mauve does glitz like nobody’s business. I was made a Dame by His Majesty, so we can’t be that bad, can we, sweetheart?

  Do you ever think back to your younger years?

  Of course I do, darling, but well, I’m loving every moment still. In fact, I’m performing tonight. You should come down; I’ll get the boys to get you on the guest-list, I assume you don’t have a plus one. Louis, be a dear and play ‘After The Ball is Over’ will you? I want to practice.

  (Although the look that Joan gave me when she assumed I didn’t have a plus one was one of hardly veiled contempt, I confess to still having a grudging admiration for the old girl. She is oblivious to the way she is being used and in a way, where’s the harm? She gets to warble the old tunes and the punters get some under the counter bacon. I think anyone who remembers the poor old soul from her heyday wouldn’t wish her ill. Although, she still had a surprise up her frilly sleeve.)

  Thank you Dame Joan; let me check my commitments and I’ll try to make it. One last question, do you ever think back to how your life would be different if you never met Mr. Bates? Do you miss him, ever?

  No, no need for that. And how can I miss him? He’s right here, Louis Bates, isn’t that right Louis?

  (I was ushered out of Dame Joan’s boudoir by Louis, a sly smi
le on his lips and a hand on a buttock, which I shrugged off with no apology. The world today is a weird place, anyone would agree and getting weirder. This occasional series on the man and woman in the street is teaching me more than anything that you certainly can't judge a book by its cover; is Dame Joan a dupe and a bit of a senile old hoofer, or is she one of the most successful black marketeers the country has yet produced. Let the reader decide!)

  VOLUNTEERS NEEDED!

  PAID WORK!

  WORK FOR THE ‘TALLY HO!’ CLUB!

  APPLY AT WADDESDON MANOR NOW!

  THE HUNTSMAN

  Name: Winston Bath

  Location: Waddedson Manor, Aylesbury

  Occupation: Master of Foxhounds

  Threat level: 1

  Article clearance: Silver

  Case file: 09/0745/GBL

  My regular readers will know that I have no views on fox-hunting, either for or against. It may be true that, in the words of Oscar Wilde, it is the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable or it may be that it is a necessary part of the countryside that we would be unwise to dispense with when all the usual bastions of society are falling around our ears. Whichever it may be, my visit to the kennels of the Tally Ho! Club was an eye-opener, as this interview will reveal.

  Thank you for agreeing to meet me Mr. Bath.

  By Jove, they’ve sent a bloody woman! Oh well, tally ho and all that, what? Can you hear me over the noise of these blasted foxhounds? Damned hounds.

  Are you about to go on a hunt?

  Yes, bad timing on your part I’m afraid, old girl. You can come with if you like, I’ll make an exception to the rules if it’s useful to your Ministry friends.

  Well I can ride but –

  No, no, say no more. My pleasure. Whip! Boy! Jodhpurs, hat, gloves, crop for the lady please.

  There is quite a gathering of people by your tent, I notice, Mr Bath.

  Yes, they are our guest riders from the city, come up for a day’s sport. They’re not regulars you see, but well, they pay their cap and they are all gentleman. A lovely day like this, a bit of English air, bloody lovely, what? The ladies, they won’t be coming, so I hope the Ministry realises I really am going against the grain letting you ride with us.

  Well I don’t actually –

  No, no, say no more old girl. It’s a brave new world, and a queer one at that. The ladies will be taking afternoon tea while the gents are away so you really are privileged.

  How has business been for you since the war?

  Blooming, old girl, blooming. You see, it’s a damned old state Blighty is in, isn’t it. People need to escape for a day, let off some steam, enjoy a good old ride and a day’s hunt before they go back to whatever misery awaits them. We’re never short of quarry for them either; would you like to meet their quarry today.

  Meet? The fox? Are they tame, then?

  Why not, what? Whip! Whip! Open the kennel door, boy. Our guest from the Ministry wants to meet our quarry.

  At this point I should tell the readers that, inside a cramped and filthy shed, was a man, little more than a boy, really, who stood up and looked apprehensively at my host and me.

  There you go, old boy, what was your name again?

  ‘Wilfrid, sir.’

  Ah that’s the one; this man here is Wilfrid, good sport he is too. I hope you’ve eaten well, you’ll need your strength what?

  ‘Oh yes sir, I’ve eaten like a king, not too much I hope, perish the thought.’

  That’s the spirit!

  Wilfrid is the quarry?

  Oh yes, friendly enough fellow too. A volunteer, actually. You see, normally we’d pay the magistrates a sum for the villains, rogues and nancies they’d dealt with, but well, bit of a shortage of criminals at the moment I’m afraid, what with the courts not being what they used to be. Every now and then a bobby will bring us a blaggard off their own steam but well, volunteers are as good as any, and they’re not so mean spirited either!

  Wilfrid, why have you volunteered for this? Do you know what’s going to happen?

  Oh yes m’lady. The family are in a bad way at the moment, and what with father’s injury, we’re nigh on destitute. I got given this here pamphlet at the market, volunteers wanted; it pays handsome, it does. Anyone who escapes the hunt is paid very handsome indeed. I’d be able to keep my family fed for a year I reckon. It’s not ideal m’lady, but work is work isn’t it and I’m grateful for it. These gentlemen could spend their time with villains but they’ve given us honest folk a chance to benefit to. And I hear a good number of people escape the hunt don’t they Mr. Bath?

  ‘Well, yes, yes, of course. Wouldn’t be sport if we won every time would it?’

  All I need to do is get away, and if I do, the next day I’ll be paid.

  ‘Well, we’re almost ready old boy, get yourself dressed and the boy will collect you in a few moments.’

  After a few minutes, Wilfrid is led out in new clothes and he is given a moment to address the crowd. He seems overwhelmed to be given the honour and I found it hard not to rush the platform and carry him off. But, as we all know, the strength is always with the numbers and I daresay that it will surprise none of my regular readers when I say that I was in little doubt that they would have been as happy with two to chase as with one. After Wilfrid’s heartfelt hope that he would give them good sport, the platform was handed over to Winston Bath, a man who I hope rots in Hell [Legal – check that for me will you, like a darling?]

  Ladies and gentleman, our guest of honour for the day, Wilfrid Seymour. A local fellow from the village, who has kindly volunteered to be our quarry for the day. He has signed all the necessary paperwork and is ready for a good day’s sport. Just remember ladies and gentleman, Wilfrid is an honest sort and is no villain, so Queensbury rules apply, that goes to you especially Sir Granston. However, sport is sport, and no quarter will be given should the foxhounds win the day.

  Mr Bath, I … I would prefer not to ride, I don’t feel too well.

  Oh blast, suit yourself. I suppose it’s good for the tradition of the thing, but do let the Ministry know I offered you to ride and they are always welcome here if they wish to join in the fun. Ok chaps, all ready? Tally ho!

  It was a while before the horses returned and by then the small talk of the Club’s ladies had worn me almost to the point of screaming. In fact, screaming was very much in my mind when I saw the bloodied muzzles of the hounds and the tattered thing which had once been Wilfrid Seymour being dragged behind Bath’s horse. As a journalist, I should have asked more questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak to the animal. This didn’t stop him filling us in on what happened. Apparently, according to the ladies, when there is no fee payable – in other words, every time – they have a whip-round for the family. Whip-round is not the word I would use. Whipping would be more appropriate.

  And there we have it; poor fellow didn’t get too far once the hounds caught up with him. What an awfully good sport though. Ladies and gentleman, if you would like to retire and the evening’s entertainments will commence at seven o’ clock. Boy, bury Mr. Seymour will you, thank you. Now, Miss … er … the ladies will have some evening attire if you wish to join us for tonight’s pleasantries. I say, whatever happened to Miss … er?

  But he was talking to my back – I needed to leave as I have never needed to leave anywhere before. In a final note to my readers, if ever I disappear, along with others already noted, please check the trophy room of the Tally Ho! Club – I noticed some of them eyeing my ponytail with some interest.

  Whitehall Radio – 600kHz MW

  Peter Dawson - God Save The King

  Anne Shelton - A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square

  MESSAGE FROM THE XXII COMMITTEE (REF: Rationing)

  Vera Lynn - There'll Always Be An England

  Anne Shelton - Coming In On A Wing And A Prayer

  MESSAGE FROM THE XXII COMMITTEE (REF: Earl Wathmere)

  Vera Lynn - Now Is The Hour

 
MESSAGE FROM THE XXII COMMITTEE (REF: English Resistance atrocities)

  MESSAGE FROM THE XXII COMMITTEE (REF: Occupied Zone)

  MESSAGE FROM THE XXII COMMITTEE (REF: Bristol)

  MESSAGE FROM THE XXII COMMITTEE (REF: His Majesty)

  Albert Farrington - Rule, Britannia

  ‘Even the creepy-crawlies don’t like the Roundheads!’

  - Southern Herald

  MOS Archives, ref. INF9/547 (endorsed)

  THE PARTISAN

  Name: ‘Fairfax IV’

  Location: Unknown

  Occupation: Criminal/traitor

  Threat level: 5

  Article clearance: Silver (amendment 1.3 and 8.3 applies)

  Case file: [omitted]

  Unusually, I am unable to write any preamble to this interview, as it will put my interviewee in danger. I will refer to him as ‘Fairfax’ but in fact ‘he’ could easily be a ‘she’, so my regular readers must take no detail in the following pages as gospel. It might be true. It might not. Who knows?

  Fairfax, for my report we are inside a pigeon coop, what is this for?

  Messages, quite impressive isn’t it? Who would have thought that the Resistance were such pigeon fanciers? Oh, please ignore my man who has had a Thompson pointed at you the entire time, and I am sorry for the blindfolded journey from our collection point, but, you can’t be too careful. Allow me to see your papers if you’d be so kind.