And then there was Edward.
It seemed to Matthew that Edward on his box reached miles into the sky and Matthew, if he stood close, had to look up and up and up to see the thrust of his chin and Edward’s legs: twin pillars planted slightly apart and balanced a little forward, his weight on the balls of his feet. He looked like a statue of a Greek god in Matthew’s school primer. Hercules, perhaps, the strongest of the heroes. Or Atlas, powerful enough to hold up the sky if he lifted up his hands and balanced it there. Or perhaps he might throw it to the crowd, throw the sky joined to the earth and bowl them all over like ninepins.
He understood no more of what Edward said than he did of the other speakers. He took individual words home in his head and rolled them around like marbles in his hand. When Edward spoke of the Wobblies Matthew wanted to laugh at the word but laughter was not appropriate. Edward did not even smile when he said it. Gran didn’t laugh either. She watched Edward and her mouth puckered as it did when she was thinking.
Edward didn’t shout but his voice boomed out of his chest like a wave forced through a narrow cleft.
‘Parliaments—anachronistic survivals of the feudal era,’ he boomed. ‘Executive committees of the capitalist class, geographical electorates where workers roost at night. cartwheel administration, industrial unions—ownership, ownership, ownership.’
Matthew sang the words in his head. He rearranged what he could remember: ‘Anachronistic geographical union—union, onion, union.’ He played with the familiar sounds, adding layers of syllables, peeling them away, in safe domestic allusions. ‘Anarchist.’ He knew that word but he didn’t like it. He waved to Edward but Edward did not see him.
‘Gawd, ’e’s swallered a bloomin’ dictionary.’
The crowd laughed.
‘Bolshie!’
‘Twelve of you going to gaol, and good enough.’
‘Bloody arsonists.’
‘No! They were not! They were framed!’
‘Who by?’
‘The Minister of Whore, of course,’ a wit jibed.
‘Like the politician’s wife,’ another mocked. The crowd hooted and cheered.
‘The police framed them!’
‘Police? Garbage!’
‘Where’s your evidence?’
‘Yeah, show us your evidence.’
‘There is evidence and we’ll get more.’
‘Sure, mate. I’ll bet you do.’
‘Manufacture it more likely.’
The interjections came from all sections of the crowd. Matthew twisted this way and that trying to see the speakers, shocked that they should be so rude to Edward.
‘You’re lying.’ This time the speaker stood beside Matthew.
‘No!’ He plucked the speaker’s sleeve. ‘No, Edward never lies, never!’
The speaker looked down and grinned. ‘Gawd, he’s just a kid.’ And he picked Matthew up and held him aloft. ‘He supports you, bolshie. There’s hope for you yet.’ The crowd applauded boisterously and Matthew struggled.
‘Give him a few years and he’ll carry the red flag for you.’
‘He won’t be dead in this rotten war like all the exploited working people of this generation,’ Edward thundered. ‘To arms! Capitalists, parsons, politicians, landlords, newspaper editors, and other stay-at-home patriots. Your country needs you in the trenches.’
‘Put him down, young man, at once!’ Gran’s voice sliced through their buffoonery. Matthew, on the ground, red-faced, struggled back into his disordered clothes. His tormentor, with a good-natured smirk, offered him a penny. He reached for it but Gran smacked his hand.
‘He doesn’t take money from strangers.’
‘OK, Grandma, OK. Meant no harm.’
‘Of course not.’ The second voice beside them was quieter, more refined, but less friendly. Matthew glanced up and saw again the man in the cigar-brown suit. He shrank a little closer to Gran who exuded suspicion.
‘Do you know my grandson?’
‘We’ve met. Haven’t we, Matthew?’
Matthew took refuge in silence. He looked unblinkingly at the stranger. But this man did not laugh or giggle or make some excusatory comment, such as ‘kids have no pretences’. He smiled but his eyes fixed on Matthew’s face were cold.
‘He knows Mother,’ Matthew answered evasively.
‘Oh.’
‘The very pretty “widow”.’
‘She’s not a widow, young man.’
‘But who can deny that she’s pretty?’
Gran didn’t bother to answer. ‘Come, Matthew, your mother will be waiting.’
‘Can I speak to Edward first?’
‘No, not today. He’ll be busy.’
‘He doesn’t look busy,’ said Matthew.
‘No,’ said the stranger. ‘He doesn’t, does he? He might like to talk with you.’
‘Edward always likes to talk to me.’
‘When he visits you …’
‘And he likes to talk to Gran. Edward’s our friend.’
‘That’s enough, Matthew. Strangers don’t need to know our business.’ And she held him firmly so that he had to follow her.
‘I don’t like that man,’ he told her.
‘Nor do I. His collar’s too tight.’
‘And he has a very, very tiny little laugh.’
‘How frightful.’ Gran laughed but Matthew noticed that when she glanced back over her shoulder her mouth puckered again.
A small group of men had started singing. Matthew knew the words of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ but these words were different.
Onward Christian soldiers, duty’s way is plain.
Slay your Christian neighbours or by them be slain.
Pulpiteers are spouting effervescent swill.
God alone is calling you to rob and rape and kill.
Edward joined in the song. His opposition countered with ‘Rule Britannia’. Singing became shouting, pushing and punching, and Edward, dragged from his box, disappeared into the brawl.
‘Gran!’ Matthew protested as she pulled him away. ‘It’s Edward …’
‘No, Matthew, come. Edward can look after himself.’ He followed, head turned trying to find Edward in the scrum.
It was in the middle of their arithmetic lesson that Mr Werther opened the door to their classroom and entered with short bouncing steps. He bobbed down the aisle to the dais, beaming at the children as he passed and making mysterious pointing movements at the strangely shaped case he carried. He smiled at the teacher, who looked down on him from her place on the dais. She was a tall woman and Matthew was sure that a little piccolo man like Mr Werther would see her wide bulbous base thinning to a tiny narrow head. She was always distorted like this to him.
When Mr Werther reached the dais he hopped on to it and laid his case on the wooden table where Miss Loyal Empire Woman kept her mark book and strap.
