2

Barnsley, February 1936. Who could possibly take British Union of Fascists seriously? Just look at their flag, hanging behind the podium of the town hall next to the Union Jack: a bright red background, with a navy blue circle cut by a white lightning bolt, like some absurd parody of Nazism and communism. Really, he thought, even Hollywood couldn’t make this up. Then there were the Blackshirts. He counted about a hundred of them, lined up either side of the aisle and at the front of the stage.

He knew what they were supposed to look like: stormtroopers – tall, broad-chested and hard-bodied, with prize-fighters’ jowls, tight slits for mouths and frightening, pitiless faces like wax masks – but the reality was rather more comic. The one nearest to him had close-cropped greying hair, a crooked nose and so many missing teeth that the few discoloured ones left looked like fangs; the tight black fencing sweater of his uniform tucked into his black trousers revealed a soft belly and flabby arms. What came to mind was an ageing, overfed and unintelligent sewer rat.

He had been brought along by the local National Unemployed Workers’ Movement organisers Tommy Degnan and Ellis Firth, and sat with the communist and Independent Labour Party contingent, whose members were making something of a scene, catcalling the Blackshirts and ragging them. He could see the Blackshirts muttering among themselves as they looked over the crowd, probably sizing up his hosts and maybe even him for special attention afterwards. They were all clutching lengths of rubber hose; one was slipping on a knuckleduster.

The hall was called to order by the meeting’s chairman, and an organ started on ‘God Save the King’, for which they all stood and sang. Strange, the English! As the song ended the yelling began, just like at a football game: ‘Hitler and Mosley mean hunger and war!’ versus ‘Out with the Jews!’ This was allowed to go on for some minutes, though whether deliberately or not he couldn’t tell. Then the Blackshirts began a slow, rhythmical chant – ‘Mosley … Mosley … Mosley …’ – each repetition carrying an unmissable undertone of violence. They were trying to drown out the cries of the communists and socialists, but the real object, he suspected, was to drown out even the possibility of thought.

A searchlight suddenly illuminated an entrance door behind them and, announced by half a dozen off-key trumpeters, a lean and insincere-looking man with a full moustache and short black hair cropped at the temples entered the hall. He was wearing a black uniform like that of the Blackshirts except for the riding breeches and boots of the officer class. Amid the loud and growing boos there were shouts of worship. Flanked by a number of more impressive guards, the Chaplinesque figure made his way to the stage, stopping at one point to trade kisses with a gaggle of upper-class women no doubt placed there for just that purpose. After their leader had passed, he saw one of the women drop to her knees and bury her face in her hands in what he took to be the act of prayer.

With the chanting joined by the sound of people stamping their feet and pounding their hands on the backs of chairs, the leader reached the podium to applause and jeering in equal measure. It was Sir Oswald Mosley: inheritor of an estate worth ten million pounds, the reputed lover of beer-baron scioness Diana Guinness, former Tory MP, former Labour cabinet minister, former leader of the New Party, Britain’s number one admirer of Hitler and Mussolini, and now the self-appointed Fuehrer of the British Union of Fascists.

What a contrast with the German dictator he had seen on the newsreels. Even at his smartest there was something obviously wrong about old Adolf’s appearance that added to his menace: the uniform slightly ill-fitting, the hair that fell over his pathetic dog-like face, the pale skin that spoke of failure and mustard gas, and explained the fixed, monomaniacal hatred of his speeches screeched out in common, guttural German. Yet here was Mosley, neat as a pin, speaking of the struggle for the new world order as if it were a pep talk before a house rugger match at Winchester.

‘I have come here to this great meeting tonight to outline the policies and faith of British fascism,’ Mosley began.

‘You mean German fascism, you Kraut-loving bastard!’ one of the miners near Orwell yelled out, audible amid the jeers. ‘We fought your pal Hitler at Eep!’ The rat-faced Blackshirt eyed up the offender and gripped his hose tighter.

Mosley ignored the hostility. ‘If you think the present state of things can really see you through, then it’s idle for this virile faith of fascism to come to you with a new and revolutionary conception of politics, of economics and of life itself.’

Really! Hitler never used terms like ‘revolutionary conception’; he had hate, which he directed against his enemies like a machine gun.

‘And now our men of 1914, our brave men of 1914 to 1918, the grim ranks of ex-servicemen who have again and again been betrayed by our politicians—’

‘Yeah, bloody right, mate, after fighting your German pals,’ yelled out someone close by, but he could see some of the older men nodding.

‘… we need a Britain worthy of their sacrifices; not a Britain of idle mills and closed pits and dole queues.’

Mosley was sounding more like Adolf now. He noticed how Mosley had moved from fascism to socialism without so much as a change in syntax. Start mild and reasonable, build up the resentment and hate. A good old hate, that’s what his people had come along for.

‘Those brave, forgotten men of the last war should join their hands with the new youth, the new generation that has studied the past and says that England is not dead.’

A new chant now went up: ‘England! England! England!’ The words were repeated slowly, over and over again.

Up on the stage, under the spotlight and in front of the huge microphone suspended from the ceiling, Mosley barely raised a sweat as he went through his theatrics, flinging his right arm back and forth like a Roman senator. The chanting continued, interspersed with eruptions of outrage as more vocal members of the audience were dragged from their seats by groups of Blackshirts and thrown through the auditorium’s swinging doors, where others were waiting to deal with them. Finally, Mosley quietened the crowd with a wave of his hand.

‘Think of your lives, men and women of northern England. You are born, fed on broken biscuits, forced to toil long hours underground or in mills until the last ounce of your strength is gone, then you are thrown into the workhouse when you can’t work a minute longer, or forced onto the dole with its iniquitous means test when the international financiers decide it’s time to cut production. You, the steelworker; why should you be on short-time, your children shoeless and in rags, when Britain needs tanks and battleships and aeroplanes? Why should you, the unemployed miner, scrabble for coal and watch your children go malnourished to support the earnings of foreign bondholders?’

The booing continued, but only from the communists and ILP’ers, and soon was drowned out by the applause, which was growing louder.

‘Why is this happening? Is it because Britain isn’t capable of supporting the people who work for it? Or is it because your work and the fruits of your work are being stolen from you?’

‘By rich buggers like you,’ someone shouted. ‘By capitalists!’

‘By the Jews!’ someone countered. The applause detonated.

‘You said it, sir, not I,’ Mosley went on. ‘I say we need a new government of men who can make decisions.’

Degnan stood on his chair. ‘We can’t all live off the estate of our dead wives, Mosley!’ he yelled.

‘Or our mistresses,’ another added.

‘Aye,’ Firth cried out, ‘no more drinking Guinness for us!’ This provoked laughter.

‘You’re a millionaire and a murderer, Mosley. When’s the last time you worked? Where’s your money invested? Traitor!’

Mosley nodded a signal to his Blackshirts. ‘Send all the world a message: England lives on and marches on! We can make Britain stronger!’ He was purple now. ‘One nation united – miner and shopkeeper, mill-worker and farmer. Yes, indeed, even the Jews putting Britain before Jewry.’

At this, audience members from both camps rose to their feet, either applauding or shouting abuse. The air throbbed with concentrated hate. As the chant of ‘Mosley!’ went up again, hundreds of fascist salutes appeared across the room in unison, as in a theatrical production. The activists around Orwell raised their voices in response but had no effect. Degnan was still standing on his chair, shaking his fist, his red face a mask of rage, screaming out: ‘Swine, swine, swine!’ A group of Blackshirts was heading towards him.

Mosley’s screeching continued. As he raved, the rat-faced Blackshirt and his comrades dragged Degnan to the aisle, shoving him towards the rear, where he stumbled and was set upon, large boots thudding into his groin and face. A broken set of dentures fell into the dark pool of blood from Degnan’s mouth. Firth, sitting a few rows ahead, tried to get across to the aisle to help but was blocked by a wall of Blackshirts. Instead he ran forward and tried to mount the stage, thinking this the quickest way across to the other aisle, but as he reached it he too was punched to the ground and whipped with rubber hoses.

‘A typical example of red tactics!’ Mosley commented to the crowd, pointing to the scene, which was illuminated by one of the roving spotlights. ‘We do not want to fight, ladies and gentlemen, but if violence is organised against us, then we shall organise violence in reply.’

‘Mosley, Mosley, Mosley …’ The rhythmical chanting reached a crescendo.