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:
‘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 comprehensive 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.’
