That immigrants bring disease, crime and immorality is a truth so universally accepted as to require no proof.
From Revolution
Secularism was the Republic’s answer to religion. And the Secular Hall was a church in all but name. A flight of low steps led to its magnificent central doorway where a bust of Jesus looked down alongside likenesses of Plato, Socrates and Voltaire. On Sundays the faithful gathered there to hear sermons on temperance, honesty and the rewards of tolerance. Small congregations, to be sure. Stripped of the irrational, there seemed less to draw a crowd.
On other days, community groups could hire out the space.
I had timed my trip to arrive as the meeting began. But stepping along the squeaky floor and through the wooden doors, I found the meeting hall almost empty. A family was sitting on one of the rearmost pews. Two young men were huddled in conversation near the front. And at the side three women, who might have been a mother and two daughters, were arranging glasses and bottles of cordial.
All turned as I entered. For a moment I thought it must be the wrong day. Then I looked more closely. There was a glint of red garnet from the end of the mother’s hat pin and one of the young men had turn-ups at the end of his trouser legs.
An older woman strode towards me from the side of the hall. “What are you looking for?” she asked, with an easy rudeness that I instantly warmed to.
“The meeting should start at two,” I said.
“If I needed them to be here at two, I’d have told them it started at one.” She ran her eyes over me from hat to boots, assessing. “You must have been in the Republic a long time. Punctuality’s still a dirty word for most of us.”
She held out her hand, which I took. “Tulip,” she said. A solidly Royalist name.
“Elizabeth,” I replied. “You’re the organiser?”
“Officially? No.”
It seemed I had found a kindred spirit. “I fled the Kingdom five years ago,” I said.
She cast me a dubious look. “You’d have been a child. You came alone?”
I nodded. “And here I am.”
“And wish to stay,” she said. “I assume we share that same goal.”
In truth I wished to return. But that was a long and complicated story. Not one to share with a stranger, though it seemed we shared much else.
People arrived in ones and twos after that. Most had assimilated to some degree. But taken as a group there could have been no mistaking them. However hard an exile tries to blend in, there is always something to give him away. Even the way a man swings his arms as he walks can place him on one side of the border or the other.
I saw nods of recognition between some of the newcomers. Handshakes and shifty glances. Conversations were hushed – the habit of wanting to be invisible, hard to drop. The man from the labourer’s cottage in Syston was one of the last to enter. It was he who had told me of the meeting. But now he seemed keen to keep his distance and slunk off to the other side of the hall.
At a quarter to three, when it seemed the meeting was at last about to begin, the doors banged open. The murmur of whispered conversations fell to silence as Yan Romero made his entrance. From our first meeting, I knew he was a performer, someone who liked to shock. But his appearance still took my breath away. He wore moss green wale cord trousers, a mustard waistcoat and a pale pink top hat of outrageous height. The outfit would have turned the heads of London dandies.
We were hiding in the Republic. He could come and go as he pleased. We tried to avoid second looks in the street. He had dressed to make an omnibus crash. Everyone stared. Mouths hung slack. No display of power could have more perfectly shaken this particular audience. He was doing what we could not.
“Afternoon,” he said, speaking into the sudden quiet.
He flourished a handkerchief, blew his nose loudly and marched towards the lectern. Tulip intercepted him with a handshake then turned to address the room.
“I call this meeting of the Association of Kingdom Exiles to order. If you would all take your seats we can–”
But Yan Romero had already climbed the pulpit. “You all know why we’re here,” he said. “So let’s cut to the chase. Then you can all get drunk. Or whatever it is you people do.”
Gone was the effete charm he had used to insinuate himself onto my boat. Here was a different man – more debt collector than lawyer. Even the accent had changed. Sing-song trills replaced by a steely edge. I felt myself shudder. I knew not to trust a man who could change his face to suit the day. But with that opening sentence, I and the rest of the hotchpotch audience, wished to be as free as him. And as rude.
“I’m supposed to be addressing clients only. Half of you haven’t paid. Thought you could sneak in? Forget it! When the treaty gets signed – and it will – you’ll be hauled back over the border to face whatever it is you ran from. I won’t lift a pinkie to help – unless you’re a paid-up client.”
The silence that followed his statement was awful. It was Tulip who managed to break it. “How do we know you’ll be able to help? You give some guarantee?”
“What are you?” he demanded. “Whores and fraudsters. Killers and runaways. Half of you’ll be hanged within the year. That’s the only guarantee. Save your money if you want. Give it to Clarence Hobb before he puts the rope round your neck.
“I’m going for a drink now. I’ll be in the Three Cranes. If anyone wants to commission me, bring your money and I’ll put your name on the list of the saved.”
That was it. He marched out. I felt the air waft as he passed close to me. A breath of rose-scented perfume. The door slammed and he was gone.
I waited for Tulip to speak again, but she seemed paralysed.
The squeaking of shoes made me turn. The family who had been sitting on the rearmost pew were heading for the door, shamefaced.
“There are other lawyers,” said Tulip. “If we band together…”
But more were on the move, heading for the Three Cranes. Better the lawyer you know.