Hairy London (23 page)

MARXIST-LENINIST TIMES

Emergency Edtion!

LONDON BASNKERS FALL AT THROGMORTON STRRET – TERRIBLE LOSS OF LI FE.

REVOLUTUION FOMENTED BY P EARLY KING AND QUEEN – WATLING STREET FRONT LINE OCC UPIED. TERRIBLE LOSS OF LIFE.

From our Russian corresp ondent.
Comrade, walk ou t if you can into the street and smell the smoke of revolution! The only way to bring down the Imperial aggressors is to rebel, to  join the new Co ckneigh Uprising as a footsoldier, as a cam p follower, to hold the  placards, to sing the soongs of joyous victory, to docu ment the events of History in which we now are embroiled.

Velvene felt anger well up inside him. Without finishing the article he flung the newspaper to the ground and said, “This is no good, Sylfia! We need action, and fast. What would Marx think if we supported the uprising from the sidelines, eh?”

“He would be proud of us.”

“Well,” Velvene agreed, “yes, he would be proud, but he would also want us to physically join the uprising. Have you spoken to this Pearly King, eh?”

“No,” Sylfia replied, irritation showing on her face, “nor to the
Queen
neither.”

“Then we must. Now! Soon!”

“I agree,” Wrocher said.

Velvene asked Sylfia, “Do we have flying machinora on the roof?”

“Of course not.”

Velvene pulled his rucksack onto his back. “Then out we go, now, and on foot.”

Sylfia nodded, though she seemed less than happy. “Percivalia, Diamony, you stay here. We three will go out.”

Percivalia stood up and said, “Why don’t you stop at Russell Square and see if that Pre-Raphaelite William Morris is home? He might lend you a painting.”

“Good idea,” Sylfia said. Suddenly animated, she led the way downstairs, forging a path along Bedford Way then into Russell Square, where, perusing her Artist Almanac, she located Morris’ address. Soon she was speaking to him at the door.

“William,” she said, “it’s a matter of great urgency. We need transport to the Cockneigh Uprising in Watling Street. Have you a suitable painting?”

Velvene knew Morris was a Communist sympathiser who would lend them something; and he did, a painting by Holman Hunt of an eagle soaring above an Italianate scene.

“Don’t get it dirty,” he said. “That’s going to be worth a lot of money in a few years.”

Back in the square Sylfia pulled the eagle out of the painting, mounting its back then pulling Wrocher and Velvene up behind her. Velvene made no complaint, though he would have preferred Wrocher to pilot the great raptor; Sylfia looked as though she had flown before. In ten minutes they landed in Cannon Street, just down from St Paul’s Cathedral, where lines of priests, vergers and choirboys stood defending the place with bibles and manticores.

Watling Street was an astonishing sight: camp fires burned along the length of the thoroughfare, while the noise of a hundred joannas echoed into the smoke-filled sky. Barrel organs played, monkey chittered, eel pie and mash were cooked in cauldrons. At the far end of the street he saw a sequin-studded marquee, which he knew must be the abode of the Pearlies, so this the trio approached.

Two fat women guarded the front entrance. “What you want?” one asked.

“We’re from the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London,” Sylfia said, “and we’re here to speak with your leaders.”

“Hmmm... all right. We’ll see.”

The other woman entered the marquee. They waited, then, a minute later, were gestured inside.

The Pearlies, Velvene saw, were darkies. Sylfia led him and Wrocher to their jelly-smeared throne, saying, “Greetings, Pearly King and Queen.”

“Wot de ’eck?” the Pearly King replied. “You is from Lenin?”

Sylfia gave the full name of her organisation, then said, “We want to support the Cockneigh Uprising in any way possible. Is there anything you need?”

“Soldiers, mon. You got a few ’undred of dem?”

“Five,” Sylfia said.

The Pearlies laughed. “No, serious,” said the Pearly King, “yeah, five is better dan none.”

Velvene stepped forward, unable to restrain himself. “Your Maj,” he said, “surely there is something more that we could offer? We have political theory, we have low cunning, and we have everything in between.”

“Yeah, why not ask dat Marx fellah to write us a pamphlet? Get da masses on our side.”

Velvene smiled. “An excellent idea!”

But Syfia said, “We don’t know Karl Marx. We’re a group affiliated to the Russian Marxist-Leninists–”

“Wait,” Velvene said, raising one hand in the air. “
I
know Marx.”

“What?” Sylfia and Wrocher said in unison. Sylfia added, “You do not!”

“I most certainly do,” Velvene replied with as much haughteur as he could muster. “I met him in Highgate Cemetery if you must know, and it was he who pulled the wool from my eyes and made me into the man I am today.”

Sylfia stared; and Velvene knew she did not believe. Wrocher seemed likewise unconvinced.

“Well, I shall prove it,” Velvene continued. “I shall go now and see him.”

“Yeah, you go, mon. But I likin’ you comin’ here. Dat real good of you.”

With that, the trio were ushered out. Sylfia grabbed Velvene’s arm and with venom said, “You embarrassed me in front of the Pearlies themselves! How dare you come back to my group and try to take it over?”

“I am not trying to take it over,” Velvene replied, extracting himself from her grip. “Besides, who are you to claim leadership, eh? We shall in due course have a cult of your personality! It is ludicrous–”

“
I’m
not going to let you waste time scouring Highgate Cemetery. The Pearlies want us as soldiers, they said that, so that’s how the working class cause can best be served.”

“What then shall we do?” Wrocher asked.

Sylfia folded her arms and said, “We’re going back to Gordon Square, we’re going to eat mouse on toast for supper, then tomorrow morning we’re going to walk back down here, all five of us, and join the fight.”

Velvene took a deep breath. “Well, that is
not
what I am going to do,” he said, dodging aside and turning. Without looking back he ran for the eagle.

“Hey!” Sylfia shouted. “Come back, thief. Stop him!”

But her plea came too late. Velvene, who had in earlier years ridden on the back of the leaf-hugging Brassica Bird of Borneo, jumped upon the eagle, grabbed feathers in each hand and urged it to rise. This it did.

“To Highgate Cemetery!” he cried.

The eagle took him to the cemetery without complaint, but at the main entrance the sign read:
Karl Marx is... OUT.
The IN sign, Velvene noticed with some concern, was algae-green from lack of use.

“Blast and sod,” Velvene swore. But then he remembered something. Marx was known to frequent the British Library. It was too late in the day now to find him there, but perhaps in the morning...

He slept in a hairy doorway in Highgate, as snug as a foot in a slipper, while the eagle, tethered by a piece of cowhide, squawked to itself. Some hours after dawn Velvene rose, then mounted the eagle and flew on to the British Library, where he tethered the eagle to a post in the street outside.

A darkie man in black and green uniform carrying a shovel and bucket approached him, whereupon Velvene read the legend inscribed on his enormous epaulette:
London Town Horse, Horseless Carriage, etc, Official Dung Service. Number 2774.

“You can’t park that eagle there,” the man said.

Velvene cursed with frustration. “What? Why not, eh? I only need to go into the library for a few minutes.“

“Yes sir, and what would happen if everybody tried to park their vehicles here without paying? Crap all over the place and clouds of down feathers, sir.”

“Officer 2774, this is an
emergency.
There is a Cockneigh Uprising down south and I need to find Karl Marx.”

The man pointed along the street and replied, “Just pay at the wooden booth, sir. It’s half day closing today, so the rate is slightly reduced.”

Fuming, Velvene stomped down the street, paid over a silver spong, was told, “Sorry, sir, we don’t give change,” then stomped back and stuck a scrap of blue writing paper on the eagle’s beak.

“So much for the revolution!” he growled. “You people will suffocate it by wrapping it up like a damn parcel.”

“I sincerely hope so, sir.”

~

Living in comfort at home was a joy for Kornukope after the perils of active service in Surrey. Enjoying tea and crumpets in the parlour, sleeping in a bed with sheets and employing the housekeeping services of a maid were most enjoyable, especially the maid; and Lacortia seemed pleased to have the lord and lady of the house back.

Hampstead, however, was as hairy as ever, and within days of their return Kornukope found himself fretting about the situation and wondering what the government were doing.

He did not have long to wait before he found out. One sunny Sunday morning he pulled a copy of the Times from his letterbox and read an extraordinary headline.

COCKNEIGHS MARCH ON CITY OF LONDON

Pearly King and Queen demand independence for East End

“Great Oates!” Kornukope gasped, running into the kitchen. “Dearest one, there is terrible news from town. The lower classes are rebelling.”

“Rebelling?”

Kornukope read the opening paragraph aloud.

From our Home Affairs correspondent.
As London continues to sweat and heave beneath the great mat of hair, a new horror has arisen from the slums of the East End. Led by a twosome in sequin-encrusted garb, a roiling mass of labourers, traders and malcontents from Whitechapel to Stepney, and from Wapping to Limehouse has burst upon the scene, setting up headquarters in the grounds of St Paul’s before moving on westwards. The government has set up a solid line of soldiers along Charing Cross Road, while Trafalgar Square, we are assured, will never be taken.

“I can scarcely believe this,” Kornukope said. Shaken by the news, and fearing the worst, he tried to raise Lord Blandhubble on the telegraphical Psittacidae, but the operator said all the lines were busy.

“I’m not surprised,” Eastachia remarked, “if there is to be war between the West End and the East End.”

“I have to do something!” Kornukope said. He felt quite weak-kneed, appalled at the thought of so many commoners rampaging across his beloved city. “Perhaps the Prime Minister will employ the services of the Suicide Club.”

“Stay at home for now,” Eastachia advised. “The hair is as thick as ever, and the Underground unreliable. We’ve done our bit–”

“Dearest one! No member of the Suicide Club ever stops doing his bit. We serve our country regardless of the cost. Duty, you know – yes, yes, the geographer’s burden, I call it.”

But Kornukope did not have long to wait before news arrived of the government’s intentions. At three pm precisely there came a knock at the front door, then Lacortia approached him in the study and said, “A Mr Bane Flumerushett to see you.”

“Send him in,” Kornukope replied, placing his newspaper on the table and checking his appearance in a mirror. “And fetch some tea and strawberry snaps.”

The visitor was a small, thin, middle-aged man with sharp features, balding pate, and a weary demeanour. His dark suit was covered with hairs.

“Hair still tough going,” Kornukope remarked. “So, Mr Flumerushett, what brings you to Hampstead?”

“First, Mr Wetherbee, I must request the presence of your good lady wife. Then you will need to send the maid home early. What I have to say is top secret.”

Kornukope’s heart leaped when he heard this. Fetching Eastachia and dismissing Lacortia, he returned to the study, where he poured tea and burdened Bane’s saucer with strawberry snaps. “And now,” he said, “what is all this about?”

“I work for the Special Hair Service,” Bane replied, passing over his identity papers, “recently set up and directly responsible to the Prime Minister. Following your success in Kew Gardens, and the subsequent demise of Gandy, we took the opportunity to explore the headquarters of the secret Indoo movement. What we found greatly concerns us.”

“What have you found?” Eastachia asked.

“We do not know. And this is why I am here.”

Kornukope sat back. Though he was a veteran of the Peruvian Rubber Campaign, the Southern African Zulu Wars and the Comestible Affair, he was nonetheless disconcerted by the gleam in Bane’s eye, by the nervous, almost anxious posture of the man.

“Tell us everything,” he said in a low voice.

Bane hesitated, glanced out of the window, then continued, “In the heart of the great glasshouse we found a chamber, covered with strange lettering and images, made of some unbreakable substance, shaped like an onion, but with a single steel door. And that door we can neither break nor unlock.”

“What do the letters say?” Eastachia asked.

“We do not know. An Indoo mathematician at the Royal Institute took a look yesterday and said it was an ancient Vedic script.”

Eastachia nodded. “As you’ll know if you’ve done your research,” she said, “I was in my youth a member of the Rhododendron Mob. To keep our plans secret we used long forgotten scripts to write our messages. Always our fear was that the Koh-i-Noor Rajah and Nohandas Gandy would intercept our notes.” She smiled, then nodded, as if recalling pleasant times. “It may be that I can read this Vedic lettering.”

“This is what we hoped,” Bane said, “knowing, as I do, your background.”

“How would we get to Kew?” Kornukope asked.

“A good point. Walking is out of the question – there is a war going on just down the road, though I should add the Kaiser is about to lose it. The Underground is patchy at best. No, I thought – and with your permission – that this mission is so important a motorised gyrfalcon should be used.”

“They are by all accounts difficult vehicles,” Kornukope remarked. “I have never used one. Also, they rarely work south of the polar latitudes.”

Bane nodded, then replied, “RAF engineers down at Biggin Hill have altered one we captured from the Norwegian Doomsayers, which will work in cool weather, such as we are experiencing now. For speed and convenience it is perfect. Will you agree to board it?”