by Jo Walton
The main streets were crowded as the spectators followed after the parade, but Sir Alan knew the backstreets and raced along them. “What did you think of it?” he asked.
“I thought it was great fun,” I said, when Betsy hadn’t answered after a moment.
“I didn’t like the Jews,” she said. “That family they had in the last group upset me. I could see the little girl bleeding.”
“You have too tender a heart, Betsy,” Sir Alan said, condescendingly. “They’re only Jews. A little water doesn’t do them any harm, and nor do a few shouted names. Even if people throw the odd stone or rotten tomato, it’s much less than they deserve. Think how they sabotage the economy when they get the slightest chance, and what they’d do to us if they could!”
There was a huge bonfire outside Marble Arch, and I could already hear the bands playing in the distance. “I hope you girls aren’t too tired,” Sir Alan said.
“Will there be speeches?” Betsy asked cautiously.
Sir Alan laughed. “Not very many, don’t worry.”
He parked the car and we made our way through the cheerful crowds. There was a bonfire, there were torches, there was band music, I could smell candyfloss and wished we could have some, though I knew it would be impossibly lower-class of me to ask for it. I was lower-class, and I knew it. I felt a deep camaraderie for all these people, marchers and watchers, the barefoot children cheerfully begging. London had not changed much since Dickens’s day, I thought, giving one of them half a crown.
And that’s how it was; we were walking through the crowds and the people all seemed to be smiling. Sir Alan said something to Betsy that I didn’t catch, and then we were in front of a rostrum next to the bonfire. “This is where the singing will be,” Sir Alan said. I could hear band music in the distance, and nearer, an orator addressing part of the crowd from another rostrum.
There was a group of Jews directly under the rostrum; two men, four women, and a little girl. They might have been the ones Betsy had seen before, because the child had blood running down her face from a cut on her temple. They all looked terrified. The ones I’d seen earlier had looked a little resigned to what was happening, and even exchanged some banter with the crowds. These kept looking from side to side and flinching, though nobody was taking any especial notice of them.
“What happens to them after?” Betsy asked.
“Mostly they’re let go again, sometimes they’re handed over to the police to be sent off to the Continent where they know how to deal with them,” Sir Alan said.
Just then a young man in a black shirt jumped up onto the rostrum and shot out his hand in the Continental fascist salute. The crowd responded, of course, copying him and cheering. He was very good-looking, with such an air of health and vitality that you didn’t really notice the details of his appearance. He seemed very young. I thought him my own age and the age of the young men I was used to dancing with at parties. There was something appealing about that. “Are you proud to be British?” he called. He had an unusual accent; not a foreign one, but not London either. The crowd roared. He leaned down into the crowd and took something from one of the men to the side of him, then straightened up again with a guitar. He started to play almost immediately, not waiting for the crowd to quiet, so I didn’t catch the beginning of the song. The tune was lovely, but the words were the usual stuff about patriotism and motherland, with a chorus we soon started singing along to that went “Power, power, British power.”
When he finished the song, he handed the guitar back down and called again, “Are you proud to be British?” The shout of affirmation seemed louder this time, maybe because I was part of it. He quieted us by lowering his hand. “Are you proud to be fascists?” he asked next. Another great roar. I was still roaring with them. I noticed Betsy wasn’t shouting; she was looking at the cowering Jews again. “Are you proud of your country, your Empire, your leaders?” We cheered more heartily than ever. The young man lowered his hand again and spoke quite quietly into the hush. “Then why are we giving the Hitler salute?” He gestured downwards. “Why are these Jews waiting to go to Germany to be dealt with? Why do we call ourselves Ironsides, instead of Blackshirts as we used to?” He paused, and the hush of people listening to him spread. I could no longer hear any other orators. “Because Germany has a proper leader, and we don’t!” he shouted. “What kind of a leader is Mark Normanby? His main claim to fame is that he was crippled when sitting next to Hitler! He’s a fraud and a cripple! He’s no sort of man, no sort of leader. He’s a politician, he politicked his way to power, he didn’t rise on a wave of belief like Hitler, like Mussolini, like Franco. He took Hitler’s name for us and called us Ironsides. He’s a lapdog! Who believes in him and his Farthing elite? Who wants second-rate watered-down fascism, as if the British Empire wasn’t the greatest state the world has ever known? British power!”
A group of men in black shirts with a banner to the side of the rostrum began singing the chorus line over and over, “Power, power, British power!”
“Normanby!” others in the crowd were shouting, in a much less organized way.
I looked at Sir Alan. His smile seemed uncomfortable. Betsy was biting her lip. “I think we should slip away now,” Sir Alan said, taking my arm, and took a step backwards through the crowd. I followed him.
The “British power” chanters quieted when the young man spoke again, but the others did not, and kept shouting as if to heckle him. “What are we going to do with these Jews? Send them off to Germany because we’re too weak to deal with them? Throw them on the bonfire!”
“Oh no!” Betsy said, turning back. The crowd around us was very dense, and surging forward. Nobody seemed to be smiling anymore, and everyone seemed to be shouting.
“Normanby! Farthing!”
“British power!”
“Come on!” Sir Alan said, tugging Betsy’s arm and letting go of mine.
“Jews on the fire!”
“Farthing! Normanby!”
I don’t know which side started the fighting. I was swept away from Betsy and Sir Alan immediately. I had trouble keeping on my feet. Nobody was trying to hit me, but it was sometimes hard to dodge badly aimed blows. I’d made it almost to the edge of the melee when a glancing blow caught me on the side of the head and I felt myself falling. “British power!” I heard, as I went down.
4
Are you sure the riot wasn’t incited by communists?” Carmichael asked.
“As sure as it’s possible to be at this stage, sir,” Ogilvie said. His frown made his flat face seem very dour. “I could ask what communists, because with Russia collapsed communism seems rather old hat to most of the young troublemakers today. But what communists there are, we’re keeping a close eye on them just like we’re supposed to and I didn’t hear a whisker of anything from them about this march. I knew you’d want to see me about this so I came in early and checked back through, and there’s sod all there, sir, excuse my French, not a mutter, not even a mention.”
Ogilvie was painfully thorough and conscientious, as Carmichael had cause to know. He sighed. “So if you’re right, how did it happen? We have nine deaths, twenty-seven people in hospital, three hundred and ninety-two rioters in the cells, and a lot of broken windows along Oxford Street. Something set them off.”
“I haven’t had time to look into it in detail, but from what I know so far, it seems as if they started fighting among themselves. The Mets on duty just started slinging everyone into the Black Marias as soon as they could, indiscriminately, and practically everyone they scooped up is an Ironside, so far as I’ve had a chance to see. Maybe there were two groups of them with a grudge against each other for some reason—these city boys can be a bit thuggish you know, sir. Or something small touched it off maybe, the wrong word, and once fists started swinging the rest of them just joined in for the fun of it.”
“I want a proper report sharpish,” Carmichael said. “Get it to me by five this afternoon. I want to know exactly wha
t happened and why, and how we can prevent it happening again. And check the communists again too. We can’t have this sort of thing.”
One of Carmichael’s telephones rang, sharply insistent. “Five past nine,” Ogilvie said. “Someone’s eager.”
“My turn to be on the carpet,” Carmichael said, reaching for the receiver. “Go on. Find out as much as you can, Ogilvie, and get back to me.”
Ogilvie left, leaving the door open behind him. Carmichael took a deep breath and answered the phone on the fourth ring. “Carmichael here.”
“Hold for the Prime Minister,” said a young female voice, and then almost immediately, the familiar silky tones Carmichael knew and hated. “Are you there, Carmichael?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, how about if you stop being there and start being here right now and tell me how that happened?”
“I don’t have enough information yet, but I have a man preparing a report on the riot now, Prime Minister, and I should be able to give you full details by this afternoon,” Carmichael said, keeping tight control on his voice. “Shall we say five o’clock?”
“No, we shan’t, because I shall be expected to speak to the Commons at three. We shall say two o’clock, directly after my luncheon, in my office at the House. I don’t expect you to waste time lunching.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.” Carmichael suppressed a childish urge to stick out his tongue just because Normanby couldn’t see him.
“And you’d better have what I need by then, Carmichael. We just can’t be having this kind of thing happening the week before there’s a major international conference. It looks bad. There are foreign journalists here already.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“And since you’re coming round, I want a report on the Japs as well. Guy seems to think they’re the biggest threat to the British Empire, now the Russians are out of it, not to mention that they now have a direct border with the Reich.” Normanby sounded peevish.
“What do you want on the Japanese, sir?”
“Oh, just a general overview, whatever’s getting Guy’s knickers in a twist, whether they’re actually a potential threat to Burma and Malaya or whether that’s all hot air. This Scythia thing. Bring it along at two.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. Sir Guy hasn’t spoken to me about the Japs, but I’ll—” Carmichael realized he was talking to the empty air; Mark Normanby had hung up. He put the phone down and gritted his teeth. He picked up the left-hand phone, the internal Watch Offices line, and dialed.
“Ogilvie,” Ogilvie said brightly.
“Carmichael, Ogilvie. Big Wheels himself has taken an interest; I have to present your report to him at two. So see I have it by half past one, could you?”
Even through the phone line, Carmichael could hear Ogilvie’s sharp intake of breath. “But I have to interview!”
“Take as many people as you like to help you this morning, just concentrate on this and let me have as much as you can. I know I can count on you.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will. I’ll stop wasting your time and let you get on with it.”
Carmichael clicked the receiver down and stared at his Grimshaw print, the one bit of light and color in the room, which was otherwise all maroon leather and dark wood. He dialed again.
“Fanshaw, Foreign.”
“Ah, Inspector Fanshaw. Carmichael here. I want a general précis of the Japanese situation, with especial attention to whether they pose a threat to the Empire in the East and the Scythia thing. I need it on my desk by one-thirty.”
“The Scythia thing?” Fanshaw echoed. “You mean the proposed buffer state? That’s very controversial.”
Carmichael hadn’t heard of it before. “Prepare me a detailed brief on it, and on the Japanese threat to the Empire, by one-thirty.”
“Yes, sir,” Fanshaw replied.
As he put the receiver down, Carmichael guessed that Fanshaw would be cursing him for the disruption of his ordinary Wednesday morning routine much as he was cursing Normanby. Fanshaw would no doubt get his Far East bods to write the reports, and he would curse Fanshaw and that, he supposed, was the secret of a chain of command. Having put out the morning’s fires, Carmichael settled down to a steady morning’s work on the conference.
Fanshaw brought his reports up himself, while Carmichael was just finishing an egg sandwich at his desk.
His secretary, Miss Duthie, peered around the door. “Mr. Fanshaw, sir,” she said. “Shall I bring tea?”
Carmichael hastily stuffed the remnants of his sandwich into his mouth and stood to greet his subordinate. “Tea would be lovely,” he mumbled, swallowing. “China tea all right for you, Fanshaw?”
“Thank you, sir, yes, and I’m sorry to interrupt you,” Fanshaw said, coming in. He was a neat little man with a walrus moustache. He had two folders under his arm, one beige and one blue. “I thought I’d better come up myself.”
“Well, sit down and tell me about it,” Carmichael said, pushing away his papers. “Tea for two, Miss Duthie.”
Miss Duthie vanished. She had come from a very respectable agency at the time when Carmichael had been promoted to his present post. Her skills at shorthand and typing were only adequate, but Carmichael had selected her because she was from outside the police, because she was older than most of the applicants, and most of all because she had made the best cup of tea. She fended off unwanted callers, selected the day’s watchword from a Golden Treasury of Verse on her desk, and in all ways performed her duties adequately. Carmichael liked her.
“The threat question is fairly simple,” Fanshaw said, settling himself. “The short answer is that they probably aren’t a threat unless something changes. They’d probably like Singapore and Hong Kong, but they know there are easier pickings. We’ve never given up an inch of land, and they know it. We cleared out of Shanghai, of course, but that’s a different kettle of fish. I don’t think we should relax and take our eye off the ball there, but they have an awful lot on their plate with China, and I think they’ll leave us alone.”
He offered the beige folder to Carmichael, who took it. “Is this different from the FO view?” Carmichael asked. “The PM said that the Foreign Secretary was concerned about it.”
Fanshaw blinked. “I don’t know how Sir Guy feels personally, but I’d say that on the whole the FO would agree with our assessment.”
“Thank you,” Carmichael said. “And Scythia?”
“Now, that’s the sticky one,” Fanshaw said, as Miss Duthie came back into the office with a small brass tray bearing a teapot, milk jug, and two cups, in Royal Albert Orange Tree pattern, Jack’s choice. There was also a plate with digestive biscuits. Fanshaw jumped up and took the tray from her and set it down on the edge of the desk.
“Shall I pour?” Miss Duthie asked.
“If you would,” Carmichael said, glancing at his watch. It was a quarter past one. He had half an hour before he had to leave if he was to be on time for his appointment with Normanby. He took his tea, milkless as always, and set it down. Fanshaw took his on his knee, fussily, thanking Miss Duthie.
“So, Scythia. It’s a proposal Japan and the Reich are squabbling over in the peace negotiations, and likely to be a difficult one. With Russia gone, the Reich are advancing into the vacuum from one end, and Imperial Japan from the other. The Scythian proposal is to establish a buffer state between them on the Steppes. We don’t have an official position on it. The FO seem to be strongly for it, I can’t think why, as it’s nothing to do with us or our sphere of influence at all. But the FO have been meddling, which is what I wanted to say to you directly, sir, and not put in the report.” Fanshaw set the blue report down before Carmichael, then sat back, sipping his tea.
“Do you think that’s what the PM wants to hear?” Carmichael asked, ignoring his own tea.
Fanshaw shrugged. “It depends how much he approves of Sir Guy stirring up international policy. I said Japan isn’t a threat
, but they easily could be if they thought we were about to put the boot into them. And then it would be watch out Singapore—since they mopped up the old Dutch colonies we’re vulnerable. A war could be long and messy, considering how far away they are, and there’s the question of whether the Americans would let us use the Panama Canal.”
“Thank you, Fanshaw, I’ll pass all this on.” Carmichael stared at the folders.
“Well, not the job of the Watch to be popular, is it, sir?” Fanshaw said, cheerily.
Carmichael smiled, liking his subordinate. “Fortunately not. Thank you for doing the reports so quickly. I’d give you a bit more warning if they gave me more warning.”
“If you like, sir, I could get a few of the boys working on the threats one in a bit more detail, with projections on what might happen if the Japs don’t like the FO meddling?” Fanshaw took another swig of his tea.
“Yes, do that over the next few days, that might be useful,” Carmichael said.
“Do you have copies of these briefs?”
Fanshaw set his empty cup and saucer back on the tray. “One copy of each. Shall I send another copy up?”
“That might be a good idea,” Carmichael said. “I’m not going to have time to give them as much attention as I’d like before I pass them on to the PM.”
“I’ll get on with it then. Thanks for the tea, though it’s awful dishwater, I don’t know how you drink that stuff.”
“You’re not supposed to put milk in it,” Carmichael said.
Ogilvie tapped on the door as Fanshaw stood up to go. “I’ve got your report, Chief. Sorry I’m late, but I practically tore it away from the typewriter as she finished each page as it is,” he said, coming in, waving a large buff envelope. “Oh, hello, Fanshaw!”
