1985 (32 page)

I decided I would quietly walk out.

I can join the looters. I can join the dead. I can teach history in one of the UUs. There is great confusion now, a blurring of the conflict, an indistinctness of frontier. Free Britons mingle with the strikers (having first discarded their uniforms and put on looted mufti) to restore a bit of human decency. Many of the strikers want to go back to work. There is a strong collective desire for a nice piece of meat, a quiet bottle of beer, an evening with the TV. Union speakers on top of trucks (fewer now, there being no petrol around) are howled down. But, of course, they are also cheered. The mosque workers work surlily. They are supervised by NCOs who carry pistols but use coshes. The illness has to be resolved. How?

The thirteenth night of the General Strike was the night of the big fires. Those who believed that these had been started by the Sons of the Prophet were disabused by the spectacle of the bright destruction of the tall thin building in the Strand (a building so slim and sharp-apexed that the Arabs themselves called it the Mibrad Azafir or ‘nail file') devoted to Islamic popular culture. Many, indeed, could see clearly now why the Free Britons were backed by Arab money: it was primarily so that, in desperate times like these, Arab property could be protected or salvaged by a body that resided outside the syndicalist covenant. The fire services did not, of course, break the strike but they rendered their equipment available to such as wished to fight fires, though they grumbled about this being a bloody liberty. The Free Britons were driven to fire-fighting almost literally at bayonet point. But, in the middle of the night when the fires were at their brightest, cash suddenly reappeared from sources unknown and pay parades were held in the streets. Some of this money unfortunately went up in flames, but for all that the fire fighters fought fires from now on more willingly, though not with a more notable expertise.

It was the Irish Republican Army at work, of course. But was it that same band of eternally and illogically disaffected who sent over the bombing planes? The fires of the night of G13 had evidently been laid by hand, but, at 02.35 the night following, the fires that ravaged the dock area and even set blazing some of the idle freighters on the Thames had an aerial provenance. There had been in history, so said the experts, only one Irish airman (the one celebrated by W. B. Yeats in a famous poem); the IRA was essentially a land force; where would they find the money to buy or borrow bombing planes?

Puzzled and perturbed, Londoners followed an invisible and inaudible bell-wether to Trafalgar Square on the morning of G15. This was the traditional forum where grief and worry could find expression, resentments could be aired, words of reassurance spoken by one leader or another. Four docile couchant lions brooded and, high in air, the one-eyed, one-armed (and, as the vulgar had it, one-arsed) hero of a great sea battle seemed to drink of air that today was like chilled Pouilly Fumé. Bev stood on the periphery of the vast muttering ragged bruised,
convalescent – could one, he wondered, say convalescent – crowd. Jam-packed and grumblingly patient. Hopeful, though, of something. On the plinth of the pillar there was as yet nobody. But, of course, nobody officially knew anything. There had been strong rumours of a meeting here, but rumours are only noise. The loudspeakers trumpeted dumbly to the corners of the square. What a target, thought Bev, for a phalanx of day bombers. But the sky was clear and empty. Bev saw Mr Pettigrew in the crowd, along with burly union leaders. What stopped them from getting up there and starting a fluent harangue about something? But everybody waited. The air was full of pigeons, comically bombing with putty-coloured faeces or vainly seeking low-level landings. There were ironical cheers when someone got one with an airgun, deadly accurate. There were also growls about leaving the poor bloody birds alone. Then there was a rustle, a growing hum of expectancy, incredulity. Vehicles were coming along the Mall. The more agile of the waiting Londoners leapt on to the plinth to get a look. ‘It's the King!' somebody yelled. Everybody laughed, nobody believed it. And then some believed, and soon everybody, and cheers began. Some rude children near Bev began to sing:

‘God save our gracious cat

Rub his belly in bacon fat

God save our'

The royal Rolls-Royce, with the Royal Standard flying, gently nosed into the square, with behind it a plain van. The plain van opened up first, and overalled technicians with the monogram CIIIR jumped out. Why weren't the buggers on strike like every other bugger? Royal servants, not allowed. Up for the chop if they did. Leads and cables snaked. The royal car opened and His Majesty King Charles III got out. Lean moustached men in good subfusc suits escorted him to the plinth. A microphone was placed in his woolly gloved hand. He wore a tight blue Melton overcoat of vaguely naval cut. There were cheers and countercheers. The King grinned. His ears were pink with cold. He said, and all listened:

‘What I'm doing right now is against the law, I suppose, but it strikes me that we've all been a bit against the law lately. What I mean is I've no constitutional right to stand here and speak. I mean, the monarch's only
supposed to be a kind of figurehead and only say what his government tells him to say. The trouble is, we don't seem to have a government at the moment. Any of you seen a government about lately? I looked under the bed this morning, but whatever it was I found there, it wasn't a government.'

He shouldn't do that, thought Bev, he shouldn't play for laughs. But he's getting the laughs. When will we bloody British learn to take things seriously?

‘As there's no government,' said the King, ‘and as I'm constitutionally a sort of head of the State, I thought I'd better come along and say a few words. I mean, nobody's working at the moment, you can all spare the time to listen. Not that I'm going to say much. One thing I have to say, though, is that Sir Malcolm McTaggart, the royal physician, is a bloody blackleg. He broke the strike this morning against the orders of the shop stewards of the British Medical Association. I asked him to. Had to. You see, my wife, the Queen that is, is just starting to give. I mean, any minute now we're going to have an addition to the family. I think we might call him Bill.'

There was an affectionate uproar. A little chinny man with glasses on, just in front of Bev, yelled:

‘Another bloody mouth to feed.'

‘What I want to say is this,' said the King, ‘and thanks very much for that er loyal expression of er you know what I mean, is this. That this bloody nonsense pardon my French has gone on long enough. I think it's time we all went back to work.' Cheers and jeers. ‘And I'm not just politely asking the Navy and Army and Air Force to go back, I'm
telling
them. If they don't want the King to be their commander-in-chief, then they'd better stop calling themselves the Royal this and that and the other. Right, let's see them jump to it. Because if they don't jump to it it's going to be a bit late to do the job they're paid to do, which is defending the country. I mean, look at what happened last night and the night before. The whole damned country's wide open for anybody who wants to walk in. We're not mugs at Buck House, you know, not all of us. Some of us know what's going on. For instance, there's this business of a number of big battle wagons prowling the oceans round our shores, and they don't belong to the Sons of the Prophet, oh dear me no. There's an aircraft carrier been spotted just off Cromarty, and the Arabs don't go in for that sort of hardware. You all know who these things belong to. No,
not the IRA, not them. And don't think our pals the Americans are going to flush them out in accordance with their North Atlantic Treaty Organization commitments. There are a lot of big American business concerns in that particular country, and that means a lot of hard Yank cash. It's a country they don't want to start a shooting match with. Too useful. It's one of the few countries in the world where the workers don't go on strike.'

Boos, cheers, laughter. The King said:

‘Anyway, I want to see the boys in blue and khaki jumping to it and shouting
Sah
and getting on with the job. We all know there's a little army been flitting about, and with our own army we don't have any need for private armies, thank you very much. So this organization is disbanded as from this moment on, and anybody who belongs to it and has weapons and ammunition had better start handing it all in to the nearest police station. Which means we want to see our brave bobbies back on the beat as from the moment I step down from this pedestal here. As for the work that's been going on in Great Smith Street, seat of the old Colonial Office and now site of the new mosque, that's strictly a union job as from now on. I had dinner last night with one or two of our Arab pals. It was a whole sheep and they gave me the eye, which they consider a great delicacy. Delicious, well, no, not really. I put it in my pocket when they weren't looking, still got it here somewhere – never mind. The point is that a mosque may be a sacred place and all that, but when it's just bricks and mortar it's no different from a supermarket or a public urinal – bigger, of course. When it's finished it can be as holy as they like. As for now – sorry, chaps, I said, but you see what happens when we start making exceptions to the rule. They saw the point all right, decent chaps really, and they're going to let us carry on doing things our own way. I know there've been some hard words said lately and a few blows, but apologies have been offered and accepted on both sides. If you don't believe me about us having our own way, just take a shufti at Great Smith Street and you'll find things nice and normal, with nobody doing a stroke.

‘We've got to stop all this nastiness between the different races, you know. I shouldn't really have to tell you that. I mean, the future peace of the world depends on everybody respecting everybody else's colour and creed and what have you. I mean, race means very little really. When I think of the racial mix of my own family my head starts to spin. Scottish
and German and Greek and God knows what else. There'll be Israeli and Arab before it's finished – if, that is, it's allowed to carry on and produce constitutional heads of State and so on. But that's up to you. Everything's up to you. That's what they mean by that big word democracy.

‘So I think everything ought to be okay now. Tonight, so they tell me, the telly will be starting again. Of course, not according to what's printed in the
TV Guide
or whatever it is – I never buy it, I just switch on and take what's going – I go to sleep, anyway – anyway BBC1 is doing
Gone With The Wind
, uncut, and that sounds like a nice way of filling in an evening. Of course, we need a bit of electricity, but I don't doubt we'll have that by lunch-time. That's about all, I think. I suppose I'm going to be for the chop now, though God knows who from, since we haven't got a government yet. Ah well, never mind –'

One of the moustached thin men passed up a message. The King's face became suffused with boyish joy as he listened. Then he told his subjects:

‘It's happened. I'm a father. A fine lad. Mother and infant both doing well. God bless you all.' He waved his woolly gloved hand and got down from the plinth. His chauffeur held the car door open ready for him. The car pushed gently through the crowd. The crowd sang fervently as the National Anthem began to pulse from the loudspeakers:

‘Send him victorious

Appy an glorious

Long to rine orious

Gawd sive ve –'

They sang with perfect WRP (TV) – Workers' Received Pronunciation (Thamesside Variety). Then they all got down to thinking of the possibility of going back to work.

‘Jones,' said old Ashthorn, presiding, as previously, in Number 3 Court, ‘you've been up before me already at least once –'

‘At most once,' corrected Bev.

The clerk of the court, loud and insolent, bawled:

‘Watch your tongue, Jones.'

The assistant magistrate, a plain flat-chested woman with a drab hat on, though not the same woman as on the previous occasion, whispered something to old Ashthorn, who sourly nodded. He said: ‘You still do not seem to have pondered sufficiently the errors of ah ah your ways. I have before me a record of recalcitrance and ah recidivism and ah what's this word?'

‘Atavism probably,' Bev said. ‘I recognize the hand of the great Mr Pettigrew.'

Old Ashthorn humphed and puffed and then said: ‘You have been given every opportunity, every. You remain what it says ah here. What have you to say for yourself this time?'

The clerk of the court bawled:

‘Come on, Jones, we've a lot of work to get through.'

‘Yes, of course, that strike of court officers has left you with a nasty backlog. Felicitations, by the way, on your latest salary award. Sorry. Well, then, I'd like to express satisfaction that this time I'm up for achieved theft instead of, as before, merely theft attempted but unaccomplished. Boodle's Gin, your honour, is a fine cordial and I enjoyed it. I wish also to say that I do not accept the jurisdiction of this court. The British judicature in all its branches has become the mere legal instrument of State Syndicalism. Let me add –'

‘All that is down here too,' said old Ashthorn. ‘And it is all ah ah irrelevant, not to say impertinent.'

‘Very well, then, I protest against the sentence you are now compelled to impose –'

‘You know nothing, sir, of the sentence till the sentence has been delivered. You have said enough, I think.' The assistant magistrate whispered to him. ‘Yes, I quite agree,' said old Ashthorn. ‘More than enough. The sentence of this court is that you be detained in a state institution for as long as His Majesty's pleasure shall determine.'

‘I knew the sentence,' said Bev, ‘before you uttered it. I protest.'