Once Again Assembled Here

by Sean O'Brien

  This was larceny, wasn’t it? I wanted to shout out an objection, but the music ended and applause broke out as Claes led his guest to the podium. General Sir Lewis Allingham was, as he seemed to have been for half a century, tall, stiff, implacably upright in tweeds, silver-haired, with the polished skin of a netsuke figure. He stood modestly aside while Claes spoke.

  ‘Good evening, friends and comrades. Let me be brief. It is a rare thing to be in the presence of greatness on a world-historical scale as we are tonight with our most distinguished speaker. Sir Lewis Allingham stands in no need of introduction. No, friends, what he needs is justice – justice for his loyalty, his vision and passion.’ Applause broke out in a disciplined way. ‘In a time of crisis the nation needs, all Europe needs, a leader by example, a clear mind, an honest voice in defence of all we hold dear. I give you General Sir Lewis Allingham.’ The applause was sustained and there were cheers and the audience would have gone on but for the single gesture of the hand with which Allingham quieted them as a commander might when addressing a regiment before battle. He gave off a kind of impersonal yet intimate authority. He claimed his auditors’ trust as of self-evident right. How could it be otherwise? And he had yet to open his mouth. I reminded myself that the man was a fascist.

  ‘Good evening, everyone. I too shall try to be brief and to resist the temptations to which age is naturally prone, and simply to set the case before you as I see it. This is a by-election brought about by the death of a sitting incumbent – and therefore a part of the democratic routine this country has evolved. I doubt if in the minds of many people such things are significant or even, perhaps, occur at all. A former prime minister and old army comrade was correct when he proposed that people in this country have never had it so good. I say “correct”, though only in a limited, material sense. But what I want to say to you here at this meeting in this hall in this city in this nation, this evening, is something more than the last hurrah and sunset song of an old man, a simple soldier whose days and duty are all but done. My friends, I assure you I am not doing this for the good of my health.’

  More applause. Warm laughter. He continued in this low key for a few minutes and then slowly his manner intensified. Here it comes, I thought.

  ‘I am here,’ he declared, ‘to appeal to you to begin a crusade from this evening on to save this great nation whose sons and daughters we are honoured in being, to save it from neglect and contempt and corruption and debasement at the hands of communism and international finance, the hydra heads of the same evil root. Shall England perish?’ (No’s and inarticulate lowings from the crowd.) ‘Shall England perish?’ (Louder cries, with much of the crowd on its feet and the boys standing at the balcony, their arms aloft as though in a triumph that had occurred without their noticing.)

  Allingham brought the volume down again with a gesture half of prayer. I saw Claes hovering in the wings. He seemed transported.

  ‘No,’ said Allingham, ‘England shall not perish until we ourselves are laid upon her burning pyre.’

  Uproar. It was like drink, like drugs, like sex, like more than all of them put together. It was a lie, but one so important to the listeners that it had to be true. They screamed and brayed until the building echoed.

  ‘Therefore let us go from here tonight, out into the city and the nation with our crusading determination renewed, our courage refreshed, our vision undimmed, in the knowledge that the service of our beloved England is its own reward. On Thursday next lay down your indelible mark at the ballot, and let us, as one sacred power, speak for England.’

  The crowd were afraid that Allingham would stop now, that he would send them back to their glum and half-demolished city and their modest discontents and their unappeased loathing of change, foreigners, immigrants and the rest.

  ‘Need I go on?’ he asked. They implored him but with a humble smiling shake of the head he declined the invitation he had so skilfully offered himself. ‘Time is short, my friends,’ he said, ‘and I have said my piece, such as it is. I must away with all the golden lads and girls who home are gone and ta’en their wages. But, my dear friends, my band of brothers, do not forget: take up the flame and fight for England. God save you all.’

  Applause rained down. There might have been ten thousand in the hall and not a couple of hundred. Like the boys upstairs, the clerks and salesmen and prison officers and discharged soldiers and dentists’ receptionists and off-duty policemen believed in that moment that they had already won.

  The cheering and applause showed no signs of dying down when David Feldberg appeared at the end of the front row and raised his hand. I noticed he was alone. Dent, or Dent’s father, had more sense, apparently. Claes made to shoo Feldberg away, but the General once more gestured for silence.

  ‘Yes, young man. It is good to see you here tonight. Have you a question?’

  Feldberg nodded. ‘Yes, General Allingham.’

  ‘Then please ask it.’

  ‘Thank you. My question is this. Why did you say in 1953 that the Jewish Holocaust had been a necessary and inevitable event?’

  Allingham’s face closed. He seemed to retire from the stage without leaving it, but he directed an unbroken gaze full of blue hatred at Feldberg.

  ‘This is not a matter relevant to this occasion,’ said Claes, dismissing Feldberg with a smile. ‘This is not the forum for such questions.’

  ‘It’s an election meeting,’ said Feldberg, evenly.

  ‘Shut up, Feldberg!’ shouted Arnesen. He was on his feet, as was Steerman. I shouted at them to sit down. They peered uncertainly across at me.

  ‘I am sure you are too young to vote, young man,’ said Claes. ‘This is an election meeting. Sit down.’ I began to move towards the stairs. There was a pause while the crowd wondered how to act.

  ‘Sir Lewis, please answer the question,’ said Feldberg, standing his ground. ‘Your statement at the reunion of the veterans of the Nazi Brigade Wallonie in Namur is a matter of historical record, after all.’

  Allingham turned and walked off the stage. Booing began from upstairs and spread down the hall. Feet began to stamp.

  I ran down the steps at the front of the hall. Before I could get near Feldberg a heavyset man came from nowhere, pushing past me.

  ‘Do not be provoked!’ I heard Claes shout.

  ‘I’ll give you an answer, you little Jew bastard!’ he yelled. There was a low cheer.

  As Feldberg turned the man punched him in the side of the head and the boy’s glasses flew off. Feldberg staggered and fell to his knees. I saw the glasses land on the floor, where without leaving her seat an expressionless grey-haired woman stamped on them. I tried to get hold of the attacker as he aimed a kick at the dazed Feldberg, but he elbowed me aside and then others were in between us, shouting and kicking. The scene slipped into slow motion. I caught sight of Steerman and Arnesen on the balcony, watching with their mouths open. Next time I looked up they were gone.

  ‘We knew our Marxist friends would not let the evening pass without trying to disrupt the meeting!’ Claes shouted into the microphone. ‘Do not allow yourselves to be intimidated, ladies and gentlemen.’ He glared down at me. I had betrayed a sacred trust, something of that sort. He didn’t join the melee. Feldberg was trying to get up, but two or three men were aiming kicks at him and I couldn’t get near.

  The whole crowd were on their feet now. Some of them were baying incoherently at this example of something that needed to be done, this proof of their deranged contention, this evidence of the injustice they had borne in silence for too long. I noticed others gathering their coats and making for the exit as if nothing had taken place. No one else came forward to help Feldberg. I tried again to break through the encircling mob and took a blow to the back of my head. For a moment I thought I might black out.

  Another party intervened and the big man fell as if pole-axed. His companions stepped back. Stan Pitt stood between them and Feldberg, while Sergeant Risman stepped over the fallen man and h
auled the boy to his feet. The mob hesitated. This fellow was clearly a bit handy.

  ‘Get yourselves home,’ said Stan. The men looked at each other. ‘You don’t want any trouble. Do you? If so, let’s be having you.’

  There were no takers. I followed Risman and the dazed Feldberg out through a door by the staircase.

  ‘You’re a very lucky boy aren’t you, Master Feldberg?’ said Risman. ‘To have friends like Mr Maxwell to look after you.’

  Behind us, music struck up again. None of the crowd tried to follow us down the corridor and there was no one about in the street. Stan appeared a few seconds later, slamming the fire door closed and removing a set of knuckle dusters. He saw my surprise.

  ‘Sometimes, Mr Maxwell,’ he said, ‘it’s Queensberry Rules, and sometimes, like tonight, it’s not.’

  ‘The car’s round the corner,’ said Risman. ‘You all right, son?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant. And thank you, Mr Pitt.’ Feldberg seemed naked without his glasses, but he kept looking over his shoulder as if he wanted to go back and try again. Risman had him firmly by the arm.

  ‘Not tonight, son. Fight again another day, and next time go equipped, all right? You’ve got some fucking guts, though. Hasn’t he, Mr Maxwell?’

  Risman was full of surprises. His car, never seen at school even though he and the equally invisible Mrs Risman lived on the site, was a beautiful black Jowett Javelin, the English Citroën.

  When we were in the vehicle, he turned and said, ‘You’re not in the cadets. Are you a Red, then?’

  ‘Not exactly, Sergeant Risman. More of an anarchist,’ said Feldberg. His lip was bleeding.

  ‘That’s good. Because I hate Reds. Luckily for you I hate Nazis even more. I was there when we liberated Belsen. So there we are, Sonny Jim. Count yourself lucky. But I dare say there’ll be hell to pay in the morning.’

  We sat considering this information while we drove away into the back streets. For a moment in the mirror I could see people fighting outside the hall. The opposition must have found out the venue at last. A police car rushed past us but its siren seemed to be switched off.

  ‘What will your father say about this, David?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not intending to tell him,’ the boy said. ‘It would only worry him. Are you going to tell him?’

  ‘I ought to. Do you want to go to the hospital?’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you.’

  ‘You’ve got a bloody funny way of looking after your old man, son,’ said Stan, roaring with laughter while Risman cornered like Fangio. ‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. But if you want to keep them, choose your venues wisely.’

  I could think of nothing to add. Feldberg nodded and rubbed his jaw.

  THIRTY

  The local evening paper on Monday carried a report of the fining of three men for public drunkenness and the binding over of two others to keep the peace following ‘an altercation’ outside a public house in Ferry Lane – the pub opposite Axness Hall. And that was all. The meeting was not reported, the causes not discussed, the politics ignored. But the police had turned up at Feldberg’s door at seven o’clock in the morning and taken David into custody. By the time his father had contacted a lawyer, he was rung up from North Dock police station to say that the boy would be released into his hands pending further investigation. When David arrived at school, Gammon, already apprised of the situation, suspended him, and called a meeting at lunchtime.

  ‘The boy Feldberg deliberately tried to cause trouble,’ said Gammon. He moved items around the blotter on the Head’s desk, as if to align them properly would allow him to occupy the role more convincingly.

  ‘He asked a question at a public meeting,’ I said.

  ‘He was deliberately provocative, so I understand.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘There were other boys present.’

  ‘I know there were,’ I said. ‘As you will remember, I was there, under your instructions, Mr Gammon. I take it you’re referring to Steerman, the BPP candidate, and that fool Arnesen.’

  ‘Are you calling Steerman a liar?’ asked Rackham.

  ‘I’m not talking to you.’

  ‘Watch your tongue,’ said Gammon.

  ‘Feldberg asked Allingham to explain something that is a matter of public record,’ I said. ‘I was there. Whether Mr Rackham was present somewhere in the background to observe for himself, I cannot say. But clearly he has an interest in the BPP.’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ said Gammon. ‘The boy went there looking to cause trouble. And he found it. And you failed to prevent it, I might add.’

  I was very tired and the room was cold. The low white sky lay on the fields like discouragement. I wondered about pointing this out.

  ‘I didn’t see Feldberg until he stood up. He was in fact the last person I expected to be there.’

  ‘Really?’ said Gammon, as if the word proved something.

  ‘Well, it seems the boy found what he was looking for,’ said Rackham. ‘They can’t help it. They bring it on themselves.’

  ‘They? Who are they?’

  ‘Levantines. You know what I’m talking about.’

  Gammon shook his head.

  Rackham continued. ‘You didn’t help matters when by all accounts you joined in.’

  ‘He was being beaten up,’ I said. ‘And what were you doing at the time, exactly, Rackham?’ I asked.

  ‘Enough,’ said Gammon. ‘Feldberg is suspended pending further action.’

  ‘His father may have something to say about that,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Then he’s welcome to make an appointment to discuss it. Or to remove his son from Blake’s, should he see fit. He might think that wise.’

  ‘He’s an Oxbridge candidate.’

  ‘Very likely,’ said Gammon. ‘I dare say. But what has that got to do with anything? The boy was arrested. Blake’s has its reputation to consider. No one individual is more important than Blake’s.’

  Bugger Blake’s, I thought, but managed not to say it.

  ‘What Feldberg did was bold and, as it turned out, rather courageous,’ I said. ‘He could hardly have known the audience would turn into to a mob.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Gammon. ‘And you of all people should know that we cannot have favourites, Maxwell.’

  ‘The other boys managed to behave themselves,’ said Rackham, smoothing his hair, ‘which rather makes my point, don’t you agree? I think they were rather shocked. I imagine their parents will feel the same way. As you say, Acting Headmaster, the question is, can we – the school – really afford this kind of thing, given everything else? An example may have to be made. The governors will expect it.’

  ‘Thank you, Rackham,’ Gammon said. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Very well, Headmaster. You know where to find me if you want any more help.’

  When Rackham had gone, Gammon turned to me again. ‘Are you bent on self-destruction, Maxwell?’

  ‘No. There are other people trying to do it for me. Why does there have to be this air of hysteria?’

  ‘Don’t be insolent.’

  ‘What do you want from me, Headmaster?’ Like Rackham, I awarded him a title he did not possess.

  ‘From you, Maxwell? Nothing at all. Except that you should go away, a long way away, as soon as possible.’ Gammon looked exhausted.

  ‘I’ll make the governors give me a hearing. There are things they need to hear. I won’t resign.’

  ‘The governors have heard all about you, believe me. No, you will not resign. You will do as you are told.’

  ‘So the wagons have been circled.’

  ‘I doubt if you would understand what this school means to some of us. If it were up to me you’d be gone this afternoon.’

  ‘But then what would happen to the mock election, Mr Gammon? And in the meantime, what can I tell Mr Feldberg?’

  ‘I shall deal with Mr Feldberg. And you will cease your inte
rference.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  I knew I should go to see Feldberg and his father after work, but I prevaricated in the school library as though Feldberg might for some reason turn up there despite his suspension. Then I went home.

  I was reading when the doorbell sounded. I looked down into the street and saw Maggie standing under the streetlight looking back at me. She raised a carrier bag in her hand and smiled.

  ‘You could have come round, you know,’ she said, throwing her coat on the settee.

  ‘I had things on my mind.’

  ‘Best to get rid of them, I find. I’ll get some glasses.’

  I was not in the mood for drinking. She scarcely noticed. When she had finished the bottle, she stood up and took my hand. ‘Come on, soldier. Do your duty.’

  ‘I’m not a soldier.’

  ‘No, indeed. I shall have to make do.’

  ‘You’re drunk, Maggie.’

  ‘Every little helps.’

  Later I was lying in the dark, wondering how to persuade her to leave, when the doorbell rang again. Maggie stirred slightly but said nothing. I went back to the front window. It was Samuel Feldberg. For a moment I considered pretending not to be in. When I had pulled on a shirt and trousers and reached the door, Feldberg was walking slowly away. I called after him.

  ‘I thought you would come to see us,’ he said.

  ‘I was intending to.’

  ‘You might have telephoned.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was asleep,’ I said, as we went upstairs.

  ‘Then I envy your equanimity,’ he said. Feldberg seemed to be occupying a dual role as supplicant and judge. Presumably the one cancelled out the embarrassment of the other. If he noticed the wine bottle and the glasses he did not say so. We ended up sitting on opposite sides of the table, as though one of us was there for an interview.

  ‘I’m sorry David has been suspended. I argued against it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, then sat waiting.

  ‘I wish there was something I could do.’

  ‘You could surely speak on his behalf again.’